GIFT   OF 
Miss    Alice    J.    Farno 


/ 


.J 


THE 


LAST   DAYS   OF  A  KING. 


AN  HISTORICAL  ROMANCE. 


BY 

MAURICE    HARTMANN. 

n 


from  tft* 
BY  M.  E.  NILES. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1867. 


Gift 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 
J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
The  Old  Republican 6 

CHAPTER  II. 
The  Officers 22 

CHAPTER  III. 
Upon  the  High  Seas 37 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Vescovato 47 

CHAPTER  V. 
Benvenuta 59 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Outlaws.......  76 


CHAPTER  VII. 
Negotiations 95 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  King  weeps 110 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Mattea 119 


iv  Contents. 

CHAPTER  X. 
The  Moreska 135 

CHAPTER  XI. 
The  Departure 153 

CHAPTER  XII. 
The  Return 168 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
The  End .  190 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  A  KING. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE    OLD    REPUBLICAN. 

THE  sea  was  of  a  brilliant  purple;  toward  the  south- 
ern and  western  horizons  alone,  had  it  retained  its  hue 
of  deep  blue,  as  evening  advanced  glowing  and  even 
blazing  with  a  bright  flame,  giving  the  cliffs  of  Mar- 
seilles the  appearance  of  melting  ore,  for  over  them 
stood  the  burning  sun  of  Provence,  which  is*  wont  to 
show  himself  in  his  greatest  power  and  splendor  at 
setting.  The  atmosphere  was  unusually  clear  and 
transparent,  and  one  could  have  seen  the  Corsican 
coast  from  the  hills  of  Toulon,  had  not  the  eye  been 
dazzled  by  the  stream  of  light  which  poured  down  from 
the  sky  and  plunged  into  the  waters.  Notwithstand- 
ing, however,  all  the  remarkable  light  and  color  of  an 
August  evening,  this  enchanting  sea  seemed  lonely, 
sad,  and  deserted  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  coast,  for 
it  afforded  not  a  single  trace  of  the  accustomed  life 
and  activity  upon  its  broad  expanse.  However  at- 
.tractively  the  placid  waters  might  invite  the  fisher- 
men, of  the  hundreds  of  white  sails  which  usually  here 
encompassed  the  land  in  a  large  half  circle,  there  were 
as  few  to  be  seen  as  of  merchantmen  and  packets. 

2  (5) 


of  a  King. 


It  was  easy  to  perceive  that  one  was  looking  upon 
a  sea  from  which  some  calamity,  war  or  pestilence, 
or  something  of  a  similar  nature,  must  have  swept 
seafaring  vessels  and  ships  for  the  transportation  of 
passengers.  Here  and  there  only,  moving  sluggishly 
along  or  lying  at  anchor,  a  floating  Colossus  was 
seen,  from  whose  fore-deck  cannon  mouths  yawned 
threateningly,  and  from  whose  masts  waved  Old  Jack, 
the  British  flag.  These  ships,  although  belonging  to 
that  nation  which  was  sovereign  upon  the  seas,  and 
composing  a  part  of  the  navy  which  rode  supreme 
over  all  the  waters  of  the  globe,  and  which  alone 
twenty  years  of  fierce  war  had  left  unconquered,  had, 
as  they  lay  thus  idly  by,  or  crept  slowly  hither  and 
thither,  a  doleful,  melancholy  look,  as  though  they  had 
been  set  to  watcli  and  to  act  as  spies. 

They  were  here  to  keep  guard  over  the  coast  of 
Provence,  and  especially  of  Toulon,  and  belonged  to  the 
fleet  of  the  Admiral,  Lord  Exmouth.  As  the  flight  of 
Joachim  Murat  from  Naples  had  left  them  nothing  to 
do,  and  Wellington  had  marched  from  Waterloo  to  Paris, 
they  were  lying  here  in  order  to  be  nearer  that  city  and 
more  convenient  to  the  orders  of  the  Iron  Duke,  and 
thus  form  a  part  of  the  iron  circle  which  now,  for  the 
second  time,  was  being  drawn  around  conquered  France. 
In  addition  to  this,  they  had  in  view  the  maintenance  of 
a  close  watch  over  the  coast  to  prevent  anything  from 
stealing  out  which  they  did  not  wish  to  allow  to  escape 
the  vengeance  of  the  Bourbons,  and,  if  necessary,  to 
support  those  barbarous  measures  which  were  employed 
with  special  energy  in  the  south  for  the  uprooting  of 
Bonapartism.  England  did  not  consider  it  beneath  her 
dignity  to  render  the  Bourbons  this  service,  and  she 


The   Old  Republican.  7 

had,  notwithstanding  her  piety  and  conscientious  scru- 
ples, to  support  these  measures,  although  they  proceeded 
in  part  from  the  Jesuits  and  their  friend  Count  d'Artois, 
afterward  Charles  the  Tenth,  and  were  directed  against 
Protestantism.  Of  this  policy  of  Castlereagh,  Lord  Ex- 
mouth  was  a  worthy  instrument.  The  blood-thirsty  Ver- 
dets,  who  took  their  name  from  the  colors  of  the  Count 
d'Artois,  and  who  pre-eminently  brought  the  so-called 
"pale  terror"  into  being,  filling  the  south  of  France 
with  crimes  and  murders,  regarded,  in  common  with  all 
royalists,  and  forgetful  of  all  honor  and  patriotism, 
these  Englishmen  as  their  devoted  friends  and  allies, 
while  the  lover  of  his  country  turned  his  eyes  away,  the 
more  easily  to  repress  a  sigh. 

Pascal  Morin,  therefore,  felt  it  a  real  misfortune  that 
his  cottage  in  the  suburbs  of  Toulon,  and  which  was 
separated  from  the  briny  deep  only  by  the  country-road, 
should  be  so  situated  that,  as  he  sat  in  his  old  easy- chair, 
he  must  needs  from  his  window  gaze  upon  the  English 
ships.  To  have  succumbed  to  the  English  by  giving  up 
a  habit  of  nearly  ten  years'  standing,  and  removing  his 
chair  from  its  accustomed  place,  would  have  seemed 
cowardice.  He  remained,  and  only  sought  to  aid  and 
divert  his  mind  by  making  every  effort  to  lose  himself 
in  thought  and  feeling  in  the  old  histories  of  Philip  de 
Comines.  and  Joinville  and  the  olden  time.  But  when 
he  read  of  the  deeds  of  renown  of  the  past,  he  involun- 
tarily glanced  out  toward  the  hateful  ensigns  and  masts 
of  Old  England,  and  he  felt  that  the  glory  and  gran- 
deur of  France  had  passed  forever.  His  arm,  which 
had  been  permanently  crippled  by  a  Prussian  bullet, 
and  with  which  he  with  difficulty  turned  the  leaves  of 
the  book,  fell  as  if  palsied  into  his  lap,  in  despair  of  the 


8  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 


,*, 


future,  or  else  it  was  raised  stiffly  like  a  staff,  in  menace 
toward  the  sea. 

" Monsieur  Pascal,"  now  said  Margaret  Beaujean,  the 
old  housekeeper,  who,  despite  the  August  heat,  took  her 
wonted  place  by  the  chimney,  which  of  course  was  with- 
out a  fire,  and  which  stood  in  the  back  part  of  the  large, 
high  room,  the  coolest  corner  in  it  on  account  of  the 
draught  of  air  it  afforded;  " Monsieur  Pascal,"  said  the 
good  old  woman,  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  famil- 
iarity, "you  are  reading  a  doleful  book  again." 

"A  very  able  one,  on  the  contrary,  and  so  interest- 
ing that  it  would  amuse  any  person  who  is  at  all  capable 
of  being  amused,  and — is  not  a  Frenchman." 

"Interesting  or  not,  throw  it  aside,  and  take  a  walk; 
it  will  do  you  good ;  you've  not  been  outside  the  door 
for  three  weeks." 

"Go  out?"  exclaimed  Pascal;  "I  shall  have  a  care 
as  to  that." 

"You've  nothing  to  fear,  I  think;  every  one  knows 
that  you  were  .never  a  Bonapartist,  and  you  were  not 
afraid  to  make  a  public  avowal  of  the  fact  under  the 
empire.  You  were  a  genuine  republican,  and  never 
lacked  for  bravery  from  '89  to  '93;  and  as  matters 
stand  now,  it  is  merely  the  partisans  of  the  emperor 
who  are  being  brought  to  trial,  and  not  those  of  the 
republic." 

"It  is  not  that,"  replied  Pascal,  in  a  vexed  tone,  with 
a  gesture  of  his  stiff  arm  as  if  in  deprecation  of  an 
affront.  "You  should  know  me  better,  old  Margaret. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  the  fellows  who  are  courageous  just 
at  this  time,  because  they  have  a  million  foreign  soldiers 
to  back  them.  I  do  not  go  out,  because  I  dread  to  hear 
of  fresh  deeds  of  baseness,  new  treachery,  and  further 


The   Old  Republican.  9 

murders;  this  it  is,  and  this  only,  that  Pascal  Morin 
fears." 

"Very  well;  I  understand  that  very  well,"  the  old 
woman  assured  him;  "and  I  beg  pardon  for  supposing 
that  a  volunteer  of  '93  could  be  afraid  of  these  hirelings 
of  ci  devants  and  emigrants;  but  you  need  fresh  air, 
and  you  ought  not  to  be  forever  looking  at  the  accursed 
English;  go  off  by  yourself  into  the  vineyard;  the  vines 
are  now  so  high  that  you  can  see  no  one,  and  no  one  can 
see  you." 

"But,  Margaret,"  exclaimed  the  old  soldier  of  '93,  in 
surprise,  and  added  in  a  subdued  tone  of  voice:  "How 
can  you  suppose  that  I  would  leave  the  house  now,  even 
for  a  moment?  Have  you  forgotten  whom  we  have  here ? 
Are  you  sure  that  this  very  hour  even,  I  may  not  be 
obliged  to  seize  my  arms  in  order  to " 

"That's  true,"  said  the  old  woman,  interrupting  him. 
"Don't  go  one  step  outside  the  house,  for  heaven's  sake  ! 
I  should  die  with  terror." 

"Very  well,"  said  Pascal,  casting  his  eye  up  toward 
an  old  musket  which  hung  against  the  wall. 

Margaret  murmured  something  to  herself;  then,  how- 
ever, she  rose  with  a  determined  air,  drew  a  few  steps 
nearer  her  master,  and  throwing  her  sewing-work  upon 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment,  said  in  a  strong 
and  yet  subdued  voice,  as  though  meant  to  be  heard  by 
him  only:  "It  is  not  quite  as  bad  as  that,  M.  Pascal; 
I  assure  you,  it  is  not  quite  as  bad  as  that ;  I  am  not  as 
cowardly  as  I  pretend  to  be.  I  give  you  my  word,  they 
need  only  to  come:  the  moment  I  see  that  they're  on 
the  track,  I'd  seize  that  musket  myself,  shoot  two  of 
them,  and  knock  the  rest  dead  with  the  stock.  When 
I  think  how  he  came  in  here  imploring  succor,  I  have 

2* 


10  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  strength  of  a  lioness.  I  shall  never  forget  it  as 
long  as  I  live;  and  I  am  gla'l  that  you  were  not  by,  for 
it  woulcj  have  wrung  your  heart  your  whole  life  long. 
Such  a  man  to  be  begging  a  crust  of  bread!  Such  a 
soldier,  who  had  not  feared  death  upon  a  hundred  bat- 
tle-fields!. I  could  but  notice  how  anxiously  he  looked 
around,  and  gazed  into  my  eyes  to  see  whether  treach- 
ery lurked  there  or  not.  And  then  when  I  set  eggs 
before  him,  how  he  ate!  —  Heaven  forgive  me,  —  he 
didn't  eat,  he  devoured!  And  how  pale  he  looked, 
handsome  man  that  he  is!  And  then  when  you  came 
in,  what  new  anxiety  his  countenance  expressed;  and 
when  you  drew  the  coin  from  your  pocket  and  laid  it 
upon  the  table  before  him,  and  he  saw  there  his  own 
likeness  and  knew  that  you  had  recognized  him,  and  ob- 
served with  so  much  anxiety  and  solicitude  the  glances 
which  you  and  I  exchanged,  as  if  to  ask,  'Will  you 
betray  me?' — 0  heavens!  I  shall  never,  never  forget  it! 
I  wouldn't  have  betrayed  him,  had  he  been  Louis  Capet 
himself,  not  if  they'd  guillotined  me  a  hundred  times!" 

"You  are  a  good  woman,"  said  Pascal,  rising  and 
gently  patting  her  old  and  wrinkled  cheeks.  "You  are 
a  good  woman ;  but  be  quiet,  and  do  not  talk  about  it ; 
walls  have  ears.  All  Ftance  swarms  with  informers 
and  spies." 

"You're  right,  I'll  be  quiet;  but  only  tell  me  this  one 
thing  that  I  cannot  explain.  How  could  Drouet,  the 
postmaster,  ever  stop  Louis  Capet  when  he  was  flying, 
and  deliver  him  up?  Drouet  was  a  republican,  was  he 
not?" 

"That  was  a  different  thing,"  said  Pascal,  by  way 
of  explanation.  "Louis  Capet  had  not  asked  succor, 
nor  was  he  his  guest.  But  now  hash,  I  beg.  I  hear 


The  Old  Republican.  11 

steps  approaching, — many  and  heavy  ones, — they  may 
be  coming  directly  here." 

The  old  republican  and  his  housekeeper  held  their 
breath  and  listened,  involuntarily  looking  out  toward  the 
road.  Steps  were  indeed  heard  approaching  nearer  and 
nearer  with  heavy  measured  tread,  seeming  the  more 
likely  to  belong  to  a  body  of  armed  men,  as  with  the 
monotonous  sound  was  unmistakably  mingled  the  rattle 
of  iron.  Margaret  whispered,  "  Quiet  is  the  word! 
Pretend,  Pascal,  that  you  are  busy  reading." 

"It  is  unnecessary,"  said  he,  as  he  recognized  the 
steps  and  clanking  sound.  "  It  is  the  prisoners  from 
the  galleys,  returning  from  the  quarries." 

"  Then  Heaven  and  our  Lady  be  praised  !"  exclaimed 
Margaret.  "  Only  a  few  hours  longer  and  he " 

"  Hush  !"  ordered  Morin. 

Meanwhile  the  galley  prisoners  drew  near  in  regular 
file,  fastened  together  two  by  two,  passing  close  by  Mo- 
rin's  window.  They  had  but  one  arm  free,  with  which 
they  carried  a  shovel'  spade,  and  quarrying  implements ; 
heavy  chains  were  clanking  upon  one  hand  and  upon  both 
feet.  Soldiers  and  gensdarmes  marched  both  before 
and  behind  the  file,  and  a  couple  of  mounted  sergeants 
constantly  galloped  back  and  forth  on  either  side.  They 
passed  the  windows  like  an  evil  apparition. 

"Did  not  you  notice  something,  Margaret?"  asked 
Pascal,  and  repressed  a  sigh. 

"I  did  indeed,"  answered  the  old  woman. 

"What  was  it?" 

"  I  was  surprised  that  the  galley  prisoners  were  not 
singing  as  they  are  generally." 

"  And  what  beside?" 

"  And  beside,  that  the  armed  guard  was  at  least  three 
times  as  strong  as  usual." 


12  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"And  what  else?" 

"And  what  else?     Nothing  else,  M.  Morin." 

"Nothing  else!"  said  Pascal  with  a  shrug.  "No- 
thing else !  The  principal  thing  then  you  failed  to  notice  ; 
did  you  not  remark  that  more  than  half  of  them  do  not 
look  like  forgers,  murderers,  and  dissolute  men,  but  seem 
like  martyrs,  noble  sufferers,  and  innocent  victims?  How 
long  has  it  been  that  we  have  had  the  Bourbons  in  the 
country, — and  now  already  the  prisons  are  filled  with 
republicans,  Bonapartists,  and  Protestants  !  I  tell  you, 
Margaret,  that  the  guillotine  of  Robespierre  was  more 
merciful  than  this  government  which  has  brought  back 
upon  us  foreign  bayonets.  Ah,  how  much  blood  has 
been  shed  in  vain,  and  how  many  patriots  will  yet  suffer 
in  vain  !" 

He  drew  his  left  hand  over  his  cold  head  and  chafed 
his  brow  as  if  to  drive  away  a  rush  of  painful  thoughts, 
and  then  with  his  disabled  arm  threw  up  the  window  to 
draw  a  long  breath,  for  which  the  large  room  did  not 
seem  to  afford  him  air  enough.  He  leaned  far  outside 
arid  gazed  on  the  splendor  of  the  sunset  and  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  gorgeous  sea,  without  perceiving  the  least 
beauty.  Condemned  to  a  life  of  inaction  twenty  years 
before,  by  a  Prussian  bullet,  which  had  crippled  his  arm, 
and  living  here  upon  his  small  estate  where  he  had  wit- 
nessed the  republic,  the  empire,  and  the  return  of  the 
Bourbons,  and  even  the  short  tragedy  of  the  hundred 
days,  and  constantly  perusing  old  books,  he  had  im- 
agined himself  a  kind  of  philosopher  whom,  as  he  fancied, 
few  things  could  discompose;  and  yet  at  this  very  mo- 
ment he  was  looking  out  toward  the  sea  to  conceal  from 
Margaret  the  convulsive  movement  of  his  features,  and 
flattered  himself  that  no  eye  was  upon  him,  his  sole 


The  Old  Republican.  13 

spectator  the  splendor  of  the  setting  sun  of  Provence. 
He  gave  a  searching  glance  around,  and  seeing  no  pry- 
ing eye  near,  he  hastily  raised  his  sound  arm  and  brushed 
away  the  tears  in  which  the  smiling  heavens  were  mir- 
rored, and  which  were  shed  over  the  calamities  of  his 
native  land  and  the  streams  of  blood  which  had  been 
spilled  in  vain. 

But  how  startled  the  old  soldier  of  the  republic  was, 
when  simultaneously  with  the  movement,  as  though  it 
had  been  a  concerted  signal,  a  second  person  emerged 
from  the  thick  bushes  upon  the  other  side  of  the  road ; 
the  pomegranate  boughs  rustled,  and  a  strange  peculiar 
form  darted  as  quick  as  a  flash,  though  stooping  and  with 
head  bent,  across  the  gravel  toward  his  grounds.  Upon 
the  instant  the  door  flew  open  and  the  same  form  lay  at 
the  feet  of  Pascal  Morin,  who  had  hardly  had  time  to 
close  the  window. 

Margaret,  who  was  at  that  moment  upon  her  knees 
before  the  hearth,  preparing  to  light  the  fire  for  the 
evening  meal,  gave  utterance  to  a  cry  of  fear,  and  was 
unable  to  rise;  Pascal  stood  still  with  upraised  arms,  as 
though  petrified  by  amazement.  This  singular  form, 
however,  appearing  thus  abruptly  before  one,  was  well 
calculated  to  excite  the  greatest  astonishment.  Every- 
thing about  him  was  peculiar  looking  and  odd;  garb  and 
complexion,  as  well  as  style  of  feature  and  expression: 
everything  betrayed  him  to  be  a  child  of  a  foreign  and 
distant  clime,  and  whose  situation  was  a  singular  one. 
His  limbs  were  bare  to  the  knee ;  a  plaited  shirt,  with  full 
sleeves  of  a  material  which  shone  like  silk,  was  tucked 
into  his  short,  loose  trowsers;  one  end  of  a  white  woolen 
mantle  lay  upon  his  right  shoulder,  while  the  rest  dragged 
long  and  wide  in  folds  behind  him  upon  the  ground;  a 


14  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

white  cloth  like  a  turban  enveloped  his  black  hair,  which, 
though  short,  fell  down  in  thick  and  luxuriant  locks. 
This  oriental  garb  was  covered  with  dust  from  head  to 
foot,  and  torn  in  many  places  as  though  its  wearer  had 
been  forced  to  make  his  way  through  bushes  and  briers. 
His  physical  constitution  and  complexion  corresponded 
with  his  dress.  His  face,  his  uncovered  breast,  his  limbs, 
all  were  of  a  dark  brown,  browner  than  is  often  or  per- 
haps ever  seen  even  among  the  dark  sons  of  Provence; 
his  countenance  was  without  that  subdued  shade  of  color- 
ing which  marks  the  children  of  the  north,  merely  lying 
like  a  pale  veil  above  a  brown  surface.  His  black  eyes 
shone  with  more  fire  and  appeared  almost  literally  to 
burn  with  an  unnatural  glow  of  fever,  adding  to  their 
wonted  lustre.  He  was  a  young  man  of  about  five  and 
twenty,  vigorously  and  compactly  built,  tall  and  well 
proportioned,  and  with  features  and  an  expression  which 
betrayed  at  a  first  glance  the  open  spirit  which  burned 
behind  and  which  shone  through  them;  so  much  the 
more  affecting  was  the  sight  as  he  lay  thus  abandoned, 
evidently  sick  and  exhausted,  entreating  succor. 

Margaret  was  the  first  to  recover  speech.  "  Good 
heavens!  it  was  just  that  way  that — you  know  of  course 
what  and  whom  I  mean,  Pascal — it  was  just  that  way 
that  he  looked.  The  man  is  a  fugitive,  flying  from  pur- 
suit; he  has  eaten  nothing  for  several  days." 

The  stranger  nodded  assent. 

"Well,  if  that  is  the  case,"  said  Pascal  impatiently, 
"  do  not  waste  time  in  words;  you  know  what  you  have 
to  do." 

"  Of  course  I  know,  I've  had  experience.  When  a 
man  rushes  into  the  house  like  that  nowadays,  one  knows 
what  it  means;  the  world  is  full  of  fugitives  and  refu- 
gees." 


The  Old  Republican.  15 

So  saying,  she  hastened  out,  while  Pascal  raised  the 
stranger,  spoke  to  him  and  led  him  to  a  chair  to  rest 
himself.  The  latter  dropped  upon  the  seat  and  closed 
his  eyes,  but  only  to  immediately  open  them  again,  and 
look  expectantly  toward  the  door.  There  they  remained 
riveted  until  Margaret  returned  with  a  waiter  covered 
with  plates  and  dishes.  The  stranger  started  at  the 
sight,  and  even  before  Margaret  had  set  down  the  food, 
he  had  seized  the  bread  with  ferocity,  as  though  he  were 
committing  a  robbery  by  force.  lie  devoured  it  with 
frightful  avidity,  while  Margaret  whispered  to  her  mas- 
ter: "TJiere,  it  was  just  like  that,  that  the  other  one 
did,  except  that  he  turned  away  so  that  I  shouldn't  see 
him."  She  then  attempted  to  arrange  the  food  before 
him  in  good,  housewifely  style;  but  regardless  of  all  or- 
der, he  seized  now  the  smoked  meat  and  now  a  bunch  of 
grapes  or  some  dried  fruit,  whatever,  as  he  stretched  out 
his  arm,  came  to  his  hand  first.  After  a  few  minutes, 
however,  it  was  evident  that  a  feeling  of  shame  that  he 
should  be  thus  affording  his  hosts  such  a  spectacle  of 
ravenous  greediness,  came  over  him.  A  light  flush  over- 
spread his  pale  face;  he  paused  a  moment  in  eating,  and 
said,  with  a  pleasing  gesture  of  his  hand  and  a  gentle 
smile  :  "  Pardon  me,  I  have  been  in  constant  flight  for 
more  than  three  days,  without  food  or  drink."  The  con- 
cluding words  seemed  to  have  again  aroused  his  hunger 
in  all  its  intensity,  for  he  once  more  turned  to  his  food 
with  renewed  avidity,  and  commenced  eating  as  though 
to  make  up  for  the  time  he  had  lost  in  talking.  They 
were  the  first  words  that  had  passed  his  lips;  they 
caused  surprise  by  his  style  and  manner  of  speaking, 
as  well  as  by  the  fine,  full  tone  of  his  voice,  but  still 
more  by  the  perfectly  pure  French  accent,  which  was 


16  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

singularly  opposed  to  the  entirely  foreign  bearing  of 
the  fugitive. 

M.  Pascal  Morin  reflected  that  the  man  was  a  person 
of  cultivation,  and,  in  order  not  to  again  expose  him  to 
a  feeling  of  shame,  he  turned  his  eyes  away  from  the 
man  while  he  ate,  and  motioned  to  Margaret  to  do  the 
same.  She  did  so,  but  soon  once  more  turned  to  him, 
to  place  wine  before  him.  The  stranger  thanked  her 
with  a  light  motion  of  his  head,  and  gently  held  back 
her  hand. 

" Why  not?"  asked  Margaret  in  surprise;  "a  little 
drink  can  do  no  harm,  and  it  gives  strength.  You  are 
worn  out." 

"  I  am  a  Moslem,"  replied  the  other,  "  and  the  prophet 
forbids  me  to  drink  wine." 

Margaret  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "  The  prophet  ?" 
she  repeated,  and  then  exclaimed,  almost  horrified, 
"  He's  a  heathen  !" 

Pascal  turned  quickly  around,  and  was  about  to  re- 
prove her,  when  the  stranger  interrupted  him,  and 
mildly  said :  "  No,  my  good  woman,  I  am  not  a  heathen ! 
My  God  is  yours  also ;  He  who  causes  these  grapes  to 
grow  before  your  door  is  the  same  Being  who  gave  life 
to  the  palm-trees  beside  my  father's  house  upon  the 
Nile."  And  turning  to  Pascal,  he  pursued:  "I  do  not 
consider  it  a  great  sin  to  drink  wine,  but  I  abide  by  the 
custom  of  my  native  land,  as  the  only  bond  which  still 
holds  me  to  the  land  of  my  fathers,  my  native  country, 
which  I  perhaps  shall  never  see  more." 

Pascal  nodded  assent,  and  began  pacing  the  room 
back  and  forth,  not  without  casting  an  uneasy  glance 
from  time  to  time  out  the  window,  or  listening  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  road  from  Toulon.  The  stranger,  however, 


The  Old  Republican.  17 

did  not  avail  himself  of  the  freedom  accorded  him  to 
continue  his  repast ;  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  closed 
his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be  collecting  his  thoughts,  like 
one  who  has  escaped  some  great  danger,  and  feeling 
himself  in  safety,  is  seeking  to  convince  himself  of  his 
delivery.  A  calm  repose  rested  upon  his  countenance, 
shortly  before  so  agitated,  so  that  he  appeared  to  be 
asleep ;  and  Margaret  passed  about  the  room  barely  upon 
tip-toe.  All  at  once,  however,  he  opened  his  eyes  again, 
and  said  to  Pascal:  "You  do  not  ask  who  I  am.  You 
are  a  noble  man,  and  are  satisfied  with  having  given  me 
a  hospitable  reception,  and  rescued  me.  But  I  know 
who  you  are,  even  though  unacquainted  with  your 
name.  Deep  sorrow  lies  depicted  upon  your  counte- 
nance, a  sorrow  which  you  can  only  feel  for  your  native 
land;  for  the  enemy  tread  your  soil  in  countless  num- 
bers, your  armies  are  vanquished,  and  you  are  at  fierce 
warfare  among  yourselves,  as  though  your  country  were 
inhabited  by  two  hostile  nations,  one  of  which  must  de- 
stroy the  other  in  order  to  obtain  possession  of  it.  And 
because  you  are  thus  sad  and  grieved  at  heart,  I  feel  safe 
beneath  your  roo/,  for  I  am  one  of  the  vanquished." 

Pascal  looked  at  him  questioningly.  He  continued : 
"  My  name  is  Nadir,  and  I  belong  to  those  Arabs  from 
Egypt,  who,  at  the  time  that  Bonaparte  was  obliged  to 
quit  the  country,  left  their  home  because  they  had 
been  firm  friends  of  France,  and  their  lives  were  no 
longer  safe  after  the  departure  of  the  French.  I  was 
ten  years  of  age  when  we,  three  hundred  in  number, 
embarked  and  sailed  to  Marseilles,  where  the  mighty 
emperor  gave  us  a  home  and  sustenance  and  his  pow- 
erful protection." 

"  Well,"  asked  Pascal  in  suspense,  and  with  fore- 
3 


18  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

bodings  that  a  fearful  answer  awaited  him,  "  how  is  it 
with  that  Egyptian  colony?" 

The  inquiry  put  an  end  to  Nadir's  composure  with 
one  blow.  He  sprang  up,  and  stood  erect  and  powerful. 
He  raised  both  arms,  and  lifted  his  thin  hands  upward, 
as  if  he  would  grasp  the  heavens,  and  instead  of  making 
Pascal  any  reply,  he  exclaimed :  "  Woe  to  the  conquerors ! 
Curse  the  assassins  !"  His  feelings  then  overcame  him, 
and  falling  upon  the  floor  with  his  face  against  the  earth, 
he  lisped  as  gently  and  imploringly  as  he  had  just  cried 
furiously :  u  Peace  to  the  sleepers, — peace,  peace  !"  And 
a  stream  of  tears  followed  these  words,  uttered  like  a 
pious  prayer  for  the  dead. 

Pascal  clasped  his  hands  in  dismay.  "  What  has  hap- 
pened?'7 

"  The  most  savage  barbarity  of  these  barbarous  days, 
the  bloodiest  crime  of  this  criminal  people.  May  Heaven 
visit  them  with  hell  tortures  even  here  upon  the  earth, 
that  I  may  gloat  over  their  sufferings ;  may  Allah 
kill  their  children  before  their  eyes  and  mine ;  may  He 
give  up  their  wives  and  daughters  a  prey  to  the  lust  of 
the  stranger,  before  their  eyes  and  mine.  Amin!  Artiin! 
Amin!  May  they  be  crushed  by  want  and  disgrace,  like 
grain  between  the  upper  and  nether  millstone !  Amin! 
They  have  murdered  their  guests  who  claimed  the  rites 
of  hospitality,  those  whom  they  should  have  protected, 
their  friends,  those  who,  for  their  sakes,  were  lost  to 
their  native  land,  and  were  wanderers  in  a  foreign  clime. 
They  fell  without  warning  like  fire  and  pestilence  upon 
the  innocent  and  defenseless,  and  massacred  every  soul, 
men,  women,  the  aged  and  children, — all,  all !  I,  the 
only  one  perhaps,  have  escaped!" 

He  had  drawn  the  upper  part  of  his  body  erect,  but 


The  Old  Republican.  19 

he  now  sank  again  upon  the  ground,  and  hid  his  face  in 
the  folds  of  his  mantle.  There  he  lay  almost  like  a  dead 
man.  Rage  and  thirst  for  revenge  seemed  quickly  to 
have  spent  themselves,  and  given  place  to  silent  grief. 
Pascal,  on  the  contrary,  now  acted  like  a  man  reduced 
to  desperation,  for  he  paced  the  apartment  back  and 
forth,  and  wrung  his  hands,  crying  again  and  again:  "It 
is  all  over  with  France !  Shame,  shame !  Shame  and 
treachery  alone  is  ours  !  0,  la  belle  France!1'  he  laughed 
in  scorn.  "La  belle  France!" 

Margaret,  meanwhile,  stood  motionless  before  Nadir, 
looking  at  him  as  though  she  had  not  the  slightest  com- 
prehension of  the  state  of  things.  When  he  again 
moved  and  let  the  mantle  fall  from  his  pale  countenance, 
to  heave  a  deep  sigh,  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  had 
just  awakened  from  a  dream,  and  she  asked:  "  But  why, 
why  did  they  do  such  a  horrible  deed?" 

"Why?"  demanded  Nadir,  in  reply.  "Because  the 
poor  people  loved  Bonaparte — perhaps  simply  because 
they  found  pleasure  in  blood." 

Nadir  arose  and  seated  himself  in  the  most  obscure 
corner  of  the  room.  The  old  republican  soldier  paced 
silently  back  and  forth.  Margaret  removed  the^cups 
and  dishes  from  the  table  without  the  slightest  noise,  as 
though  she  feared  to  break  the  silence.  A  deathlike 
stillness  thus  suddenly  reigned  where  grief  and  despair 
had  raged  shortly  before.  Nadir  was  the  first  to  speak. 
He  rose,  placed  himself  before  Pascal,  and  said :  "  You 
are  different  from  those  people ;  you  remind  me  of  the 
heroes  who  came  to  Egypt  with  Bonaparte  and  Kleber, 
and  who  were  like  the  heroes  of  ancient  times.  You 
have  refreshed  me  after  three  days  of  flight  and  hunger. 
May  Heaven  bless  your  home,  however  you  may  now  an- 


20  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

swer  me ;  and  God  bless  you  also,  old  mother,  for  your 
eyes  shone  with  pleasure  as  you  gave  me  food.  Tell  me 
whether  you  will  harbor  me  here,  whether  I  may  seek 
repose  beneath  your  roof?" 

"Of  course,  of  course!"  replied  Margaret  officiously. 

But  Pascal  interrupted  her.  "No,  my  friend,"  he 
hastily  said,  "  not  to-day  !  Look  out  some  place  of  con- 
cealment for  this  night;  early  to-morrow  morning  you 
may  come  again,  and  you  shall  be  welcome.  But  not 
to-day  !  The  pursuers  may  perhaps  track  you  to  my 
house,  and — for  this  night  only — may  a  kind  Providence 
keep  them  far  from  my  door." 

"By  all  means!"  stammered  Margaret,  in  confusion. 

Nadir  fixed  his  piercing  eyes  upon  them  both.  "You 
already  have  one  fugitive  concealed,''  he  said,  "  and 
therefore  you  are  right.  I  see  that  it  is  compassion, 
and  not  the  lack  of  it,  which  leads  you  to  send  me  away. 
Heaven  save  me  from  putting  his  pursuers  upon  the 
track  of  a  fugitive.  Farewell!  I  shall  flee  further, 
but  not  too  far  away,  that  I  may  be  near  you  in  cas^ 
you,  and  perhaps  he  too,  should  need  my  help.  One 
word  more !  If  it  is  he  whom  you  have  hidden,  be  upon 
your,  guard.  The  whole  coast,  every  house,  every  cot- 
tage, every  garden,  vineyard,  and  cave  will  be  hunted 
through  and  through  by  the  emissaries  of  the  govern- 
ment, as  well  as  by  miserable  wretches  who  seek  to  make 
forty-eight  thousand  francs.  That  sum,  though  you 
may  not  yet  know  it,  is  set  upon  his  head.  Farewell !" 

With  an  inaudible  step  he  quitted  the  room,  threw 
the  mantle  under  his  arm  and  around  his  frame,  like  a 
broad  girdle,  turned  to  the  left  around  the  corner  of  the 
house,  resumed  his  stooping  gait,  and  disappeared  among 
the  vine-clad  hills,  to  whose  white  surface  his  white  man- 


The  Old  Republican.  21 

tie  and  turban  would  have  afforded  little  contrast,  even 
had  not  the  boughs  shielded  him  from  view. 

Margaret  watched  him  through  a  small  back  window, 
but  her  eyes  did  not  follow  him  long,  but  remained  fixed 
upon  a  large  wooden  shed,  within  which  a  numerous 
flock  of  poultry  made  themselves  audible,  and  which 
terminated  in  the  back  board  partition  against  the  steep 
hillside,  from  which  the  boughs  fell  in  thick  and  dense 
foliage,  covering  half  of  the  small  wooden  building. 
She  could  hardly  turn  her  eyes  away  from  this  unat- 
tractive-looking object,  and  gazed  at  it  with  a  sympathy 
which  betrayed  more  than  a  housewife's  interest  in  the 
poultry.  Pascal,  however,  impatiently  ordered  her  to 
return  into  the  room. 

"I  think,"  said  she  in  a  low  tone,  "it  will  soon  be 
time  to  take  him  something  to  eat." 

"No,  not  to-day!"  he  said  abruptly.  "You  heard 
what  the  Arab  told  us.  They  may  break  into  the  house 
at  any  moment." 

He  then  turned  again  to  the  window,  and  watched  the 
sun,  which  seemed  to  him,  to-day,  to  set  much  too  slowly. 


* 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    OFFICEKS. 

IT  was  still  early  evening  when  the  premises  of  Pas- 
cal Morin  were  suddenly  thronged  with  people  on  foot 
and  on  horseback,  some  in  uniform,  and  some  without. 
Those  on  horseback  had  not  yet  dismounted,  but  the 
sitting-room  was  already  filled  with  those  who  had  come 
on  foot,  and  the  whole  house  was  surrounded.  The 
former  planted  themselves  before  all  the  doors  and  en- 
trances, while  the  latter,  without  even  stopping  to  salute 
the  inmates,  ran  hither  and  thither  looking  with  prying 
greedy  eyes,  like  bloodhounds,  into  every  corner  and  be- 
hind every  article  of  furniture.  A  couple  of  men  forced 
Pascal  and  Margaret  to  seat  themselves  on  a  bench 
in  the  corner,  and  forbade  them  to  stir  from  the  spot.  A 
moment  afterward  they  heard  the  men  rattling  noisily 
around,  above  them,  under  the  roof.  The  ceiling  shook 
beneath  their  tread,  pieces  of  furniture  were  overturned 
and  broken  open,  curses  and  imprecations  meanwhile  re- 
sounding on  all  sides,  as  corners  and  closets  and  every 
nook  that  could  serve  as  a  place  of  concealment  were 
examined  and  explored  without  revealing  the  object  of 
their  search.  This  abominable  search  was  in  full  progress, 
making  it  seem  as  though  the  dwelling  were  filled  with 
barbarous  and  plundering  foes,  when  a  man  entered, 
wearing  a  ribbon  in  his  buttonhole  and  followed  by  two 
other  men  decorated  with  white  scarfs.  This  person  wore 
(22) 


The  Officers.  23 

lightly  powdered  hair  Beneath  a  small  three-cornered  hat, 
with  which  the  cut  of  his  loose  dress  coat,  his  short 
stockings,  and  the  huge  silver  buckles  in  his  shoes,  well 
accorded.  His  dress  closely  resembled  the  style  in  vogue 
previous  to  the  revolution,  although  his  age  forbade  the 
belief  that  he  retained  this  garb  from  youthful  habit, 
for  it  had  long  since  fallen  into  disuse  in  France. 

He  approached  Pascal  and  said,  by  way  of  introduc- 
tion, "  I  am  the  Marquis  von  Riviere,  the  prefect  of 
Marseilles." 

"  I  have  the  honor  of  knowing  you,  Marquis,"  replied 
Pascal  with  a  slight  bow. 

"  You  know  me?"  demanded  the  Marquis  in  surprise. 
"  I  have,  however,  been  in  this  part  of  the  country  but  a 
short  time." 

"  We  are  old  acquaintances,"  Pascal  asserted  in  reply. 

The  Marquis  was  somewhat  embarrassed,  but  soon  col- 
lected himself  and  said  with  a  smile:  "So  much  the 
better,  for  then,  being  an  old  acquaintance,  you  will  the 
more  heartily  aid  me  in  the  discharge  of  my  duty.  We 
are  in  search  of  Joachim  Murat.  It  is  the  expressed 
will  of  his  Majesty,  Louis  Eighteenth,  our  king,  that  this 
usurper  of  Naples  and  brother-in-law  of  the  tyrant,  shall 
be  arrested.  It  is  certain  that  he  has  entered  into  com- 
munication with  a  large  number  of  the  inhabitants  of 
this  region,  and  that  his  presence  may  endanger  the  peace 
and  order  of  this  department,  for  which  I  am  respon- 
sible. Only  a  few  days  ago  he  was  wandering  about 
here  upon  the  seacoast,  and  he  went  out  in  a  small  boat 
and  hailed  a  brig,  requesting  it  to  take  him  up.  The 
brig  refused  to  do  so  and  he  returned  to  the  land.  A 
wornjout,  and  famished  man  was  seen  wandering  here 
among  the  vineyards,  who,  according  to  the  description 


24  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

and  accounts  of  the  country  people  who  have  been  ques- 
tioned, can  be  no  other  than  Joachim  Murat.  The  treas- 
ures and  jewels  which  he  has  with  him  are  worth  ob- 
taining and  sharing  among  those  who  aid  in  giving  him 
up  into  the  hands  of  his  majesty." 

The  Marquis  paused  a  moment  and  waited  for  Pascal's 
reply:  as  none  came,  he  leaned  toward  him  and  to  his 
previous  remarks  added,  in  a  low  tone:  "Forty-eight 
thousand  francs  will  be  given  to  the  person  who  delivers 
him  up,  or  renders  especial  service  in  his  arrest." 

Pascal's  lips  were  still  motionless,  and  his  countenance 
continued  without  the  least  expression.  A  dark  cloud 
passed  over  the  Marquis's  brow  and  was  upon  the  point 
of  becoming  threatening;  it,  however,  soon  disappeared 
and  gave  place  to  an  amiable,  flattering  smile.  He  again 
commenced: 

"  You  say  that  we  are  old  friends — when  did  we  make 
each  other's  acquaintance?" 

"  Years  ago." 

" Years  ago?"  asked  the  Marquis  intently.  "And 
where?" 

"  At  Grenoble,"  quietly  replied  Pascal.  "In  conse- 
quence of  the  part  you  had  in  Cadoudal's  conspiracy 
against  the  emperor,  you  were  condemned  to  death  and 
were  already  at  the  place  of  execution.  I  was  present. 
You  were  pardoned  by  request  of  Queen  Caroline,  the 
wife  of  Joachim  Murat,  as  well  as  by  that  of  the  king 
himself." 

The  Marquis  started  and  his  hand  was  clinched.  He 
made  a  faint  movement  as  though  to  turn  away  from 
Pascal,  evidently  with  a  view  of  giving  some  order;  but 
he  collected  himself,  and  again  addressed  Pascal,  saying: 

u  It  is  very  true  that  the  king  and  queen  of  Naples 


The  Officers.  25 

saved  my  life;  I  feel  grateful  for  it  and  wish  to  render 
Joachim  Murat  a  similar  service.  Once  taken,  he  is 
safe,  but  thus  wandering  around  he  may  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  populace  and  be  murdered,  like  Marshal 
Brune." 

"  Marshal  Brune  murdered!"  exclaimed  Pascal,  in 
dismay. 

"  Day  before  yesterday  at  Avignon,"  said  the  Mar- 
quis. "  He  was  murdered  by  a  furious  mob.  Murat 
must  inevitably  meet  the  same  fate,  if  we  do  not  succeed 
in  taking  him.  Whoever  surrenders  him  up  to  us,  is  his 
savior." 

The  Marquis  again  waited  in  vain  for  an  answer;  he 
now  thought  fit  to  dissemble  no  longer;  he  turned  to  his 
men  and  ordered  them  to  make  a  thorough  search  through 
the  house,  court-yard,  and  garden.  Then  looking  over 
his  shoulder  at  Pascal,  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  menace: 

"Any  man  who  conceals  Joachim  Murat,  or  even 
knows  his  hiding-place,  without  giving  him  up  to  the  au- 
thorities, will  be  sent  without  further  words  to  the  gal- 
leys, as  being  guilty  of  high  treason.  It  is  not  far  from 
here  to  Toulon,  M.  Morin." 

Pascal  merely  nodded  assent. 

While  this  conversation  was  in  progress,  the  two  men 
with  white  sashes,  both  of  them  police  commissioners 
from  Toulon,  had  been  subjecting  old  Margaret  to  an 
examination.  One  of  them  ordered  her  to  swear  by 
Notre  Dame  de  la  garde,  that  she  had  no  knowledge  of 
the  whereabouts  of  Joachim  Murat.  It  rather  shocked 
her,  but  she  did  as  she  was  ordered,  hoping  to  obtain 
absolution  at  confession  the  following  Sunday.  Then, 
notwithstanding  the  oath,  the  same  man  told  her  that  if 
she  knew  Joachim  Mural's  place  of  concealment  and 


26  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

gave  him  up,  she  would  receive  forty-eight  thousand 
francs,  the  amount  appropriated  by  Fouche,  the  minis- 
ter, for  this  patriotic  deed. 

"  Fouch<3 !"  exclaimed  the  old  woman  in  a  tone  of 
simplicity;  "it  is  not  possible  that  he  is  that  wicked, 
deceitful  minister  of  Corsican  tyranny !" 

"  He  is  now  the  minister  of  his  Majesty,  Louis  Eigh- 
teenth." 

"  Impossible !" 

"Yet  so  it  is." 

"  Then  it's  a  pity  that  I  know  nothing  about  Joachim 
Murat.  Forty-eight  thousand  francs  !  It  would  make 
me  comfortable  all  my  life, — but  no  such  good  fortune 
could  ever  happen  to  a  poor  old  woman  like  me.  You'll 
see,  M.  Commissioner,  some  rich  person  will  get  the 
money  who  has  least  need  of  it.  Minister  Fouche  would 
have  done  better  to  vow  this  large  amount  to  our  dear 
lady,  Notre  Dame  de  la  garde,  at  Marseilles,  and  then 
you'd  have  found  Murat,  certain." 

"And,"  continued  the  commissioner,  "Murat  carries 
an  untold  number  of  costly  jewels  concealed  in  his 
clothing,  a  treasure  of  immense  wealth;  half  of  these 
will  be  given  to  the  person  who  puts  us  upon  his  track." 

"  Ah,  you  see,  M.  Commissioner,  I  don't  regret  that  so 
much,"  said  Margaret,  in  a  simple-hearted  manner;  "I 
care  nothing  about  jewels.  I  have  never  worn  one  all 
my  life,  and  don't  want  to  commence,  now  I'm  old. 
People  would  laugh  at  me  if  I  started  wearing  diamonds. 
Some  rich  person  will  get  them,  too :  you  remember  what 
I  say." 

The  officer  turned  away  in  contempt,  and  leaving  the 
room,  went  into  the  court-yard,  where  the  Marquis  and 
his  retinue  had  already  gone:  the  other  officer  wearing 


The  Officers.  27 

the  white  sash  stopped  a  moment  before  Margaret  and 
looked  in  her  face  in  a  penetrating  manner.  A  hardly 
perceptible  smile  played  about  his  lips,  and  he  then  said 
in  a  tone  which  was  meant  to  be  threatening,  and  which 
yet  by  a  mixture  of  mildness,  betrayed  that  it  was  one 
of  warning : 

"  If  we  find  nothing  to-day,  we  shall  return  to-mor- 
row/' and  then  he  too  went  into  the  court-yard. 

History  has  preserved  the  name  of  this  man,  and  pre- 
served it  by  the  pen  of  one  of  the  finest  of  historians, 
Pietro  Colettas,  the  Tacitus  of  Italy.  It  was  Joliclere. 
He  was  the  same  person  who,  at  an  earlier  day,  when 
negotiations  were  being  entered  into  with  Joachim  Murat, 
as  being  in  rightful  authority,  was  required  to  discover 
his  place  of  retreat,  which  he  refused  to  do,  as  the  inten- 
tion was  to  betray  his  confidence  and  have  Murat  sud- 
denly seized.  Joliclere  atoned  for  his  fidelity  in  exile, 
never  repenting  what  he  had  done.  Yet  the  man  spent 
his  whole  life  a  mere  policeman!  What  temples  virtue 
chooses  for  her  abode! 

Meanwhile,  house  and  court-yard  were  examined  still 
further,  and  not  even  the  smallest  nook  was  left  un- 
searched.  Pascal  and  his  housekeeper  were  brought 
outside  and  placed  in  the  yard,  several  officers  watch- 
ing their  countenances  while  their  subordinates  hunted 
around  everywhere,  even  beating  against  the  massive 
freestone  wall,  to  chance  to  discover  by  the  sound,  some 
cavity.  The  men  hoped  that  they  might  find  out  by  the 
expression  of  their  countenances,  whether  they  were  near 
the  hiding-place  of  the  fugitive  or  not.  The  two  old 
people,  however,  watched  the  earnest,  excited  efforts  of 
the  bailiffs,  Pascal  with  quiet  dignity,  and  Margaret  with 
a  smile  of  perfect  simplicity.  Only  when  a  number  of 


28  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

men  approached  the  hen-house,  did  Margaret  betray  any 
discomposure,  when  seeing  them  kick  open  the  door  and 
crowd  in,  she  sprang  in  violent  agitation  from  her  seat, 
and  hurried  straight  to  the  hennery. 

"You  must  let  my  poultry  alone !"  she  cried.  "  They've 
nothing  to  do  with  your  politics,  and  the  king  never  sent 
you  to  catch  my  hens  and  turkeys !" 

The  men  laughed,  and  tried  to  force  her  out  of  the 
chicken-house;  but  she  stood  her  ground,  and  fought  the 
air  with  her  arms,'haranguing  them  meantime  in  a  loud, 
shrill  key,  and  fortunately  succeeded  in  raising  a  terrible 
noise  and  commotion  on  the  overpopulated  hen-roosts;  a 
confusion  and  disturbance  that  was  positively  deafening. 
The  turkeys  flew  in.  rage  at  the  intruders,  who  were 
soon  driven  in  flight  from  the  chicken-house,  though 
how,  they  themselves  did  not  know.  Margaret,  in  a 
state  of  exhaustion,  seated  herself  at  the  entrance,  pre- 
pared, as  she  assured  them,  to  repel  by  force  any 
renewed  attack  upon  her  darlings.  The  men  treated 
her  and  her  "darlings"  to  a  sneer,  but  did  not  make  a 
second  attempt  in  that  direction. 

In  the  south,  during  the  warm  summer  months,  day 
changes  to  night  almost  without  a  twilight.  Suddenly 
the  darkness  for  which  Pascal  had  been  longing  came 
on,  and  seemed  about  to  put  an  end  to  any  further 
search.  But  the  spies  had  provided  themselves  with 
lanterns  and  torches,  which  were  now  quickly  lit :  and 
as  the  stock  was  insufficient  for  the  large  number 
engaged,  they  flew  to  the  dry  olive-twigs  that  lay  piled 
up  in  thin  bundles  in  the  court-yard,  and  dipped  them  in 
the  oil-cask  which  stood  in  a  side  hall,  and  thus  impro- 
vised new  lights. 

"Now  for  the  vineyard!"  ordered  Von  Riviere,  and 


The  Officers.  29 

directed  the  men  on  horseback  to  go  around  the  hill  to  the 
other  side.  While  these  were  trotting  around  there,  the 
gang  divided  themselves  off  in  Pascal's  vineyard,  where 
the  lights  flitted  hither  and  thither  like  will-o'-the-wisps, 
lighting  up  the  vines  for  the  benefit  of  the  two  old  peo- 
ple who  had  remained  behind  in  the  court-yard,  but  at 
the  same  time  showing  them  how  the  poor  plants  were 
being  trodden  down  and  abused.  Margaret  approached 
her  master  and  started  to  speak,  but  he  hurriedly  laid 
his  hand  upon  her  lips.  It  was  impossible  to  know 
whether  some  spy  might  not  have  remained  behind, 
watching  them  in  the  darkness;  yet  he  could  not  help 
pressing  her  hand  and  whispering  in  her  ear,  "You 
have  done  nobly,  my  good  woman!" 

They  remained  standing  there  some  time,  watching 
the  lights,  which  gradually  ascended  the  hill  until  they 
met  in  one  spot,  to  immediately  again  disappear. 

"Now  they  are  at  the  cave,"  said  Pascal. 

Margaret  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said  in  a  con- 
temptuous tone:  "Of  course,  one  would  be  likely  to  hide 
himself  in  a  cave  that  every  goat-herd  knows  about:  in 
that  case  it  would  be  an  easy  thing  to  make  forty-eight 
thousand  francs!" 

After  some  time  the  lights  again  disappeared  on  the 
other  side  the  hill,  and  now  for  the  first  time  were  the 
lamps  in  the  house  lit,  and  Pascal  went  around  the  farm 
with  a  lantern,  to  be  sure  that  no  spy  had  been  left  be- 
hind, while  Margaret  did  the  same  under  pretense  of 
putting  the  court-yard  to  rights.  There  were  no  servants 
at  hand,  for  Pascal  had  sent  them  off,  three  days  previ- 
ously, on  various  errands  to  Cannes,  Aix,  and  Mar- 
seilles ;  a  part  of  them  to  intimate  friends  who  were  to 
detain  them  as  long  as  possible. 

4 


30  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

The  same  quiet  as  before,  increased  only  by  the  still- 
ness of  the  night,  reigned  in  and  around  Morin's  farm ; 
a  silence  hardly  broken  by  the  waves  of  the  sea,  which 
beat  against  the  coast  with  rather  more  violence  than  by 
day.  The  darkness  was  intense,  for  the  stars  were  hid- 
den by  clouds  and  the  moon  rose  late.  This  Pascal 
observed  with  pleasure,  but  the  violent  tossing  of  the 
'waves  he  did  not  well  like. 

"  Just  come  to  the  window,  Margaret;  you  were  born 
here,  and  are  a  pilot's  daughter — tell  me  what  you  think 
of  the  weather  ?" 

Margaret  put  her  head  and  hand  outside,  listened  to 
the  beating  of  the  waves,  and  gazed  in  every  quarter  of 
the  heavens. 

"Bad,"  said  she,  "bad,  M.  Morin!  The  night  no 
doubt  will  be  tolerable,  but  toward  morning  we  shall 
have  a  west  wind." 

"Well,  then,  it  is  all  right,"  answered  Pascal,  at 
ease;  "before  morning  he  will  have  reached  his  ship,  and 
the  west  wind  will  blow  him  quickly  off  the  coast  of 
France  toward  Corsica." 

"Then  he  is  going  to  Corsica?" 

"To  await  the  answer  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria, 
who  has  partly  promised  him  an  asylum." 

"But  will  he  be  more  secure  in  Corsica  than  here? 
Is  not  Corsica,  too,  French?" 

"Yes,  but  the  Emperor  Napoleon  is  from  that  place; 
the  Corsicans  will  receive  him  as  one  of  themselves; 
they  are  a  hospitable  people,  and  if  he  tells  them  that 
he  places  himself  under  their  protection,  he  will  be 
safer  there  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world." 

"But  are  there  not  French  soldiers  there,  too?" 

"  Of  course,  but  not  in  sufficiently  large  numbers  to 


The  Officers.  31 

oppose  the  Corsicans  if  they  wish  to  protect  him ;  and 
after  all,  they  are  soldiers  who  stand  by  the  Emperor: 
The  king  has  thoroughly  informed  himself  as  to  the 
whole  affair." 

"The  king!"  said  Margaret;  "you  yourself  let  that 
word  slip,  now!" 

"The  danger  seems  over,"  said  Pascal,  smiling,  "or 
at  least  promises  soon  to  be.  Get  ready,  Margaret;  but 
be  quiet,  for  fear  that  we  may  not  hear  the  concerted 
signal,  for  the  sea  is  more  noisy  than  ever." 

Pascal  drew  the  table  near  the  window,  placed  the 
lamp  upon  it,  and  remained  himself  standing  near  it, 
constantly  listening,  while  Margaret  was  busy  in  the 
background,  making  up  a  small  package  of  food.  She 
then  seated  herself,  and  a  long  time  passed  away  in  per- 
fect silence.  Suddenly  there  came  from  the  water  the 
sound,  subdued  but  perfectly  distinct,  of  the  first  verse 
of  one  of  the  sailors'  songs  of  Provence,  pathetically 
bemoaning  the  fate  of  a  cabin-boy  who  goes  to  the 
bottom,  within  sight  of  his  native  shore.  Pascal  and 
Margaret  rose,  and  the  verse  was  not  yet  finished,  when 
they  both  stood  in  the  court-yard  and  before  the  hen- 
house. Margaret  pushed  the  door  open,  showing  a 
reckless  disregard  of  its  inmates  which  afforded  a  re- 
markable contrast  to  the  solicitude  that  she  had  mani- 
fested toward  her  protegees,  when  the  officers  were  by. 
She  aroused  the  sleepers,  and  with  a  broom  drove  them 
from  their  retreat;  such  fowls  as,  overcome  with  drow- 
siness, fell  from  their  roosts,  she  seized  and  threw 
relentlessly  after  their  flying  companions.  She  then, 
with  her  broom,  swept  the  floor  of  the  hennery  as  clean 
as  was  possible  to  do  in  the  haste  and  precipitancy 
which  her  whole  manner  exhibited.  Pascal,  meanwhile. 


32  The  Last  Days  of  4  King. 

stood  near  her,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  which  he  so 
shaded  with  the  skirt  of  his  coat  that  the  light  fell  only 
upon  the  space  directly  before  him,  inside  the  chicken- 
house.  He  then  passed  his  disengaged  hand  over  a 
board  in  the  back  partition  and  drew  out  a  few  project- 
ing nails,  and  half  the  partition  fell  out  toward  him. 
Margaret  picked  it  up  and  laid  it  quietly  upon  the 
ground.  A  small  hollow  discovered  itself  to  them  in  the 
stone-wall,  against  which  the  hen-house  was  built,  and 
from  which  the  vines  fell  over  the  building ;  it  was  one  of 
those  caves  which  are  known  in  science  as  lithotomi  cavi, 
and  which  are  often  found  in  calcareous  mountain  dis- 
tricts, having  served  as  places  of  retreat  and  conceal- 
ment for  the  persecuted  Protestants  during  the  times  of 
the  dragonnade  carried  on  against  the  Calvinists. 

Before  Margaret  and  Pascal  there  stood,  smiling,  a 
tall,  handsome  man,  whose  long,  brown  locks  fell  over 
his  shoulders,  and  together  with  his  mild  though  earnest 
black  eyes,  afforded  a  slight  contrast  to  his  black  mous- 
taches and  the  thoroughly  military  appearance  of  this 
surprising,  peculiar,  and,  on  the  whole,  pleasing  person. 
As  he  emerged  with  a  firm  step  from  his  hiding-place, 
Margaret  involuntarily  assumed  a  stooping  posture,  as 
though  in  profoundest  reverence,  and  Pascal  himself 
remained  standing  before  him  with  a  respectful  air. 

"Well,  my  hosts,"  said  the  singular-looking  man, 
"to-day,  matters  were  really  in  earnest.  One  thin  plank 
separated  me  from  disgrace  and  perhaps  from  death.  I 
heard  everything:  the  stormy  confusion  in  the  house, 
the  curses  which  were  launched  against  me, — and,  too, 
your  brave  defense  of  the  chicken-house,  my  good 
Margaret." 

He  spoke  in  a  loud  tone,  as  though  there  were  no 


The  Officers.  33 

prying  eye  to  fear,  and  with  a  calmness  and  composure 
that  seemed  to  ignore  the  necessity  of  haste.  Pascal 
asked  him  to  come  into  the  house,  and  informed  him 
that  he  had  heard  the  signal  agreed  upon,  and  that  all 
was  ready  for  his  departure.  Joachim  Murat  did  not 
allow  himself  to  be  incommoded  by  this.  Having 
reached  the  sitting-room,  he  took  the  lantern  from  his 
host's  hand,  let  the  light  fall  upon  Margaret's  face,  and 
said,  placing  one  hand  upon  her  shoulder:  "I  want  to 
fasten  that  countenance  in  my  memory  for  all  time. 
Candidly,  M.  Pascal,  you  are  my  host,  a  stranger  who 
has  afforded  me  hospitality;  to  you  I  owe  my  thanks  for 
my  escape,  and  perhaps  for  even  yet  the  attainment  of 
prosperity  and  power,- — but  you  are  a  man.  To  this 
good  old  woman  I  feel  under  incomparably  greater  obli- 
gations than  to  yourself." 

"Your  Majesty  is  right,"  assented  Pascal. 

"You  must  have  been  handsome  once,  my  worthy 
Margaret,"  continued  Murat.  "Your  eyes  have  even 
yet  a  pleasing  brilliancy,  and  those  dimples  in  your 
cheeks  were,  no  doubt,  captivating.  And  you  were  never 
married  ?  How  comes  that  ?  I  should  much  like  to 
know  your  history." 

"Your  Majesty "  stammered  Margaret  bashfully, 

and  a  girlish  blush  suffused  her  aged  features. 

"  Should  I  ever  become  king  once  more,  then,  Mar- 
garet, I  will  not  forget  you.  Ah!  how  my  Caroline 
would  watch  over  and  care  for  you!  Could  I  do  some- 
thing for  you  even  now — here,  take  this  small  casket, 
there  is  enough  in  it  to  make  you  rich  ;  there,  take  it." 

With  these  words,  he  drew  from  out  the  folds  of  the 
woolen  blouse  which  he  wore  beneath  his  mantle,  a  small 


34  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

cliatouille,  and  was  about  to  thrust  it  into  Margaret's 
hands;  but  she  hastily  retreated  a  step,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Heaven  forefend!  Cease,  Sire,  I  entreat!  I  will  not 
take  it!" 

As  the  exclamation  was  uttered  in  a  tone  of  reproach, 
he  drew  the  proffered  gift  quickly  back. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  worthy  Margaret,"  said  he,  "you 
see  that  I  was  too  long  a  king,  and  consequently  im- 
agine that  every  kindness  must  be  paid  for.  Pardon  me. 
And  now,  what  have  I  to  do?" 

"  The  boat  is  waiting  for  you,  Sire,"  said  Pascal,  in- 
terrupting him.  "Your  ship,  which  is  to  take  you  aboard 
at  sea,  must  set  sail  this  very  hour.  '  There  is  no  time 
to  be  lost — everything  is  planned  to  a  minute.  You 
must  be  aboard  and  out  at  sea  before  the  moon  rises, 
otherwise  you  will  not  escape  the  English.  You  must 
away,  Sire,  and  at  once." 

"Then  forward,  and  without  delay!"  exclaimed  Mu- 
rat;  "for  we  go  to  meet  the  foe.  I  will  not  take  leave 
of  you,  for  I  shall  see  you  again.  Forward!" 

He  walked  toward  the  door  as  though  advancing  to 
battle.  Pascal  hastened  before  him  to  lead  the  way,  and 
Margaret  brought  up  the  rear  with  a  small  package, 
filled  with  provisions.  After  going  some  distance  along 
the  country  road,  they  turned  to  the  left,  and  walked  to 
the  foot  of  a  small  hill,  toward  a  creek.  They  passed 
a  few  houses  on  the  way,  in  which  lights  were  still  burn- 
ing, and  whose  occupants  were  still  awake.  Notwith- 
standing this,  Joachim  Murat  attempted  several  times  to 
enter  into  conversation,  but  Pascal  took  the  liberty  to 
impose  silence  by  a  low  "Hist!"  To  persuade  him  to 
tread  more  lightly  was  impossible,  and  his  footsteps  were 
distinctly  audible  as  he  passed  along.  They,  however, 


The  Officers.  35 

arrived  at  the  creek  and  the  place  agreed  upon,  in 
safety. 

"  Jaquet!"  cried  Pascal. 

"Here!"  replied  a  voice,  and  the  person  called  imme- 
diately sprang  from  a  skiff,  which  he  drew  by  a  chain  as 
near  as  possible  to  land. 

"  Hasten  into  the  boat,  and  away,"  whispered  Pascal 
to  the  king;  "I  heard  steps  and  a  noise  behind  us." 

"Adieu  and  au  revoir!"  exclaimed  Murat,  and  sprang 
into  the  skiff. 

"Well,"  said  Pascal  to  Jaquet,  "why  do  not  you  go 
aboard?" 

"I?  I  am  not  going!"  replied  the  sailor. 

"Traitor!  what  does  that  mean?  Are  you  not  paid 
for  taking  the  king  to  the  Themis?"  exclaimed  Pascal 
in  anger  and  dismay. 

" Paid ?"  replied  the  other.  "I  have  done  enough 
for  two  hundred  francs ;  if  it  were  known  that  I  was  in 
the  plot,  I  should  be  sent  to  the  galleys.  I  am  no  trai- 
tor ;  if  I  were,  I  might  have  earned  a  larger  sum.  And 
the  Themis?  Well,  first  let's  see  where  the  king  is  to 
meet  her." 

"The  Themis,"  Pascal  informed  him,  "is  the  king's 
ship;  it  must  be  waiting  for  him  at  sea." 

"  I  know  much  better  than  that,"  said  Jaquet.  "  We'll 
wait  for  it  first.  I  fancy  his  Majesty  will  be  obliged  to 
make  the  voyage  to  Corsica  in  a  row  boat." 

"  Idle  prating !"  exclaimed  Murat.  "  Villain !  will  you 
get  into  the  boat  or  not  ?" 

He  received  no  answer  ;  with  a  bound,  Jaquet  had  dis- 
appeared over  the  hill  and  behind  it,  into  the  night. 

Margaret  clasped  her  hands.  "  Good  heavens  !  what 
is  to  become  of  the  king  now?"  she  cried  in  despair. 


36  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"My  arm,  my  crippled  arm!"  exclaimed  Pascal.  "I 
cannot  row  you,  Sire  !" 

"Never  mind,  my  friends,"  said  Murat,  consoling 
them,  "I  can  row  very  well  myself,  until  I  fall  in  with 
the  Themis." 

He  seated  himself  and  grasped  the  oar,  when  some 
one  bounded  in  after  him,  and  so  violently,  that  the  boat 
shook. 

"  Is  it  you,  Pascal,  jumping  into  the  boat  ?"  demanded 
the  king. 

"  No,  Sire,  I  am  here  upon  the  land.  Is  any  one  in 
the  boat?" 

"We  are  lost!"  exclaimed  Margaret. 

"  It  is  I,  M.  Morin !"  a  voice  from  the  boat  now  cried  ; 
"I,  Nadir,  your  guest!" 

"  The  Egyptian  !"  exclaimed  Margaret. 

"  Tell  the  king,  M.  Morin,  that  he  can  place  confidence 
in  me,  that  I  am  a  good  ferryman,  and  a  fugitive  like 
himself,  and  that  I  belong  to  the  race  of  those  who 
expiated  their  attachment  to  the  emperor  by  proscrip- 
tion and  death." 

"It  is  so,  Sire,"  exclaimed  Pascal;  "you  have  a 
friend  aboard." 

"My  star,  my  star!"  said  Murat  with  fervor,  and 
raised  his  hat  aloft.  "  Push  off,  Egyptian,  you  carry 
Caesar  and  his  fortunes!" 

And  the  skiff  glided  away  into  the  sea  and  night. 


CHAPTER  III. 

UPON    THE    HIGH     SEAS. 

BOISTEROUS  waves  rocked  the  frail  bark  that  bore 
away  the  two  fugitives,  two  men  of  so  widely  different  blood 
and  destiny,  who  had  never  seen  each  other  face  to  face, 
who  even  at  that  very  moment,  when  their  destinies  were 
so  closely  united,  could  not  interchange  a  glance,  for  the 
intense  darkness.  The  succor  which  had  met  him  so 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  inspired  the  king  with  confi- 
dence, and  gave  him  a  feeling  of  cheerfulness  which  he 
was  in  such  a  high  degree  capable  of  enjoying,  and 
awakened  within  him  a  courage  which  was  born  with 
him  as  with  few  mortals.  He  observed  with  pleasure 
the  skiff,  in  spite  of  the  high  waves,  gliding  quickly  on. 

"  You  ply  the  oar,  Nadir/'  said  he,  "  as  if  you  were 
a  boatman  born." 

"I  am  not,  Sire,"  replied  the  Egyptian,  haughtily. 
"  My  father  was  the  prince  of  our  line,  but  I  have,  it  is 
true,  supported  him  and  my  brothers  and  sisters  for 
years  in  Marseilles,  often  acting  as  boatman  and  fisher- 
man. I  am  thoroughly  at  home  in  guiding  a  boat,  and 
I  hope  to  have  the  good  fortune  to  place  your  Majesty 
in  safety.  But  I  will  be  silent;  the  flame  dancing 
yonder  before  your  eyes,  is  the  light  aboard  an  English 
ship." 

The  skiff  glided  noiselessly  on,  so  noiselessly  that 
one  ever  so  near  could  not  have  heard  the  dipping  of 

(3V) 


38  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  oars.  The  ship's  light  was  soon  moving  behind 
them. 

" Farewell,  perfidious  England,"  exclaimed  Murat, 
"  who  meant  to  take  me  in  your  trap !  You  will  not  get 
me.  Do  you  remember -what  a  trick  I  played  you  at 
Capri  also  ?  It  was  my  first  act  as  king  of  Naples,  and 
by  it  I  gained  that  fair  crown." 

At  the  thought  of  that  truly  daring  deed  by  which  he 
commemorated,  in  brilliant  style,  the  beginning  of  his 
rule,  Murat  smiled,  wrapped  himself  in  his  mantle,  and 
heedless  of  the  waves  which  frequently  beat  over  into 
the  boat,  he  extended  himself  at  full  length  in  the  skiff, 
to  dream  of  days  gone  by,  and  think  over  those  to  come. 
He  soon,  however,  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  and  his  dreams 
carried  him  back  to  the  hundred  battles  of  the  past,  to 
the  pomp  of  his  royal  castle  in  Naples,  to  the  bosom  of 
his  family,  and  to  the  side  of  Caroline,  his  talented  and 
faithful  wife,  to  whom  now,  far  away  in  Austria,  no 
power  of  second  sight  could  betray  the  situation  and  po- 
sition of  her  husband. 

The  king  slept  and  the  Arab  rowed.  Nadir  hoisted 
no  sails,  partly  from  fear  of  the  storm  which  manifested 
itself  more  and  more  in  the  shape  of  the  dreaded  north- 
west wind,  and  partly  from  anxiety  lest,  by  carrying  sail, 
they  should  be  driven  by  the  strong  breeze  too  rapidly  out 
to  sea,  and  too  far  from  the  Themis.  Midnight  had  long 
since  passed,  the  darkness  grew  dense,  the  storm  drove 
the  thickest  clouds  asunder,  and  a  few  stars  here  and 
there  looked  twinkling  out.  It  was  light  enough  for 
Nadir's  eyes  to  gaze  upon  the  sleeping  king.  As  he  lay 
thus  calmly  near,  a  deep  awe  penetrated  this  son  of  the 
East.  Such  composure  under  such  a  lot  appeared  to 
him  impossible,  save  in  a  favored  being,  who  looked  with 


Upon  the  High  Seas.  39 

perfect  confidence  into  a  lofty  future.  The  son  of  a 
small  country  innkeeper  lay  before  him,  a  man  born  in 
obscurity,  whose  fortunes  had  been  intimately  linked 
with  those  of  Napoleon,  the  grandest  character  of  mod- 
ern times ;  the  son  of  the  people,  who  had  worn  two 
crowns,  and  who  had  fought  the  mightiest  battles  in  Na- 
dir's native  land  as  well  as  in  every  country  of  Europe. 
Was  he  not  the  chosen  of  Heaven,  an  instrument  in  the 
hand,  and,  it  might  be,  a  favorite  in  the  heart  of  God  ? 
Was  it  not  a  silent  decree  of  Heaven  that  he  should 
meet  with  succor  and  fidelity  in  every  time  of  danger? 
And  from  the  singular  manner  in  which  Nadir  had  met 
him,  was  it  not  written  in  the  book  of  fate  that  he  should 
follow  and  cling  to  him,  without  questioning,  just  as  he 
was  now  acting  as  ferryman  and  pilot,  without  having 
seen  his  face  ? 

With  renewed  energy  he  grasped  the  oars,  which  he 
had  dropped  in  fatigue,  and,  for  the  morning  twilight 
had  already  dawned  upon  the  sea,  gazed  with  his  pierc- 
ing eyes  far  out  after  the  ship  which  bore  the  treasures, 
papers,  and  friends  of  the  flying  king,  and  which  was 
to  receive  the  latter  himself  on  board.  Suddenly  a  ray 
of  sunshine  beamed  over  the  vast  expanse  of  water,  and 
at  the  same  moment,  lit  up  by  the  sunbeam,  a  corvette 
danced,  apparently,  directly  before  Nadir's  eyes.  He 
jumped  bounding  up,  and  hailed  the  ship,  which  could 
not  hear  him.  The  king  awoke,  followed  the  eyes  and 
movements  of  Nadir,  and  quietly  said,  "It  is  they! 
Do  not  fatigue  yourself,  my  friend ;  as  soon  as  it  grows 
a  little  lighter,  they  will  see  us,  for  they  are  keeping  a 
careful  lookout  in  all  directions,  and  they  will  bear 
down  to  us." 

Nadir,  however,  did  not  give  up,  but  now  rose  to  make 


40  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

signals,  letting  his  white  mantle  wave  in  the  breeze,  and 
now  sitting  down  again  and  rowing,  as  the  ship,  not- 
withstanding all  his  signals,  kept  its  course.  Fortu- 
nately at  daybreak,  the  wind  began  to  blow  so  strong 
from  the  northwest,  that  the  Themis  was  obliged  to  reef 
her  sails  to  give  the  wind  as  little  brace  as  possible,  and 
although  blown  violently  up  and  down,  she  made  but 
very  slow  progress. 

aSee,"  said  the  king,  "they  have  stopped  to  ascertain 
to  a  certainty  whether  we  are  the  persons  whom  they 
are  looking  for  or  not !" 

But  Nadir  shook  his  head.  The  conduct  of  the  crew 
of  the  ship  did  not  seem  to  him  to  have  confirmed  such 
a  supposition;  had  they  intended  to  bear  down  to  the 
skiff,  they  would  have  given  them  some  signal  that  they 
had  seen  them,  and  notwithstanding  the  heavy  wind, 
they  could  have  set  the  topsail,  and  thus  reach  the  boat 
in  a  few  minutes.  It  might  be,  however,  that  the  fugi- 
tives on  board  the  Themis  were  unskillful  seamen,  and 
as  none  but  those  who  could  be  trusted,  could  be  em- 
ployed to  man  the  vessel,  they  might  have  been  obliged 
to  ship  inexperienced  hands.  Thus  thinking,  he  in- 
quired of  the  king  in  reference  to  it,  in  order  to  allay  a 
suspicion  which  was  fearfully  excited  in  his  mind. 

"How,"  exclaimed  the  king  with  a  laugh,  "unskill- 
ful seamen,  inexperienced  hands?  Blancard,  Langlade, 
Donnadieu,  three  very  able  naval  officers,  are  on  board." 

"  Then,"  answered  Nadir  in  anxiety,  "  then,  your  Ma- 
jesty, I  cannot  understand  the  behavior  of  the  corvette." 

"  The  enigma  will  be  explained — let  us  but  steer  for 
the  ship." 

Nadir  exerted  his  strength  to  the  utmost ;  the  skiff 
flew  on  as  if  he  had  at  that  moment  first  taken  the  oars 


Upon  the  High  Seas.  41 

in  an  unwearied  hand ;  the  space  between  the  boat  and 
the  Themis  grew  shorter  and  shorter.  The  king  stood 
up  and  beckoned,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  those 
in  the  ship  had  noticed  them.  All  was  animation  on 
board,  and  sailors  and  officers  were  running  hither  and 
thither. 

"There  is  something  unusual  going  on,  on  board," 
said  Nadir.  "  There  is  not  the  proper  order." 

"  A  leak,  perhaps,"  said  the  king. 

"  Hardly,  your  Majesty,  for  all  the  hands  are  on  deck. 
And,  too,  there  is  no  appearance  of  the  launching  of  a 
boat  nor  the  letting  down  of  a  ladder." 

"  Silence!"  ordered  the  king,  and  he  knit  his  brows 
while  he  folded  his  arms  like  one  who  is  awaiting  what  is 
about  to  happen.  After  a  little  time  he  said:  "I  recog- 
nize them  already.  There  is  Bonafoux  my  nephew,  who 
has  just  run  over  the  reardeck, — he  has  disappeared — 
does  he  wish  to  hide  from  me?" 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Nadir;  "what  does  it 
mean?  They're  setting  all  their  sails  !" 

A  few  more  powerful  strokes  of  the  oar  and  they  were 
but  a  few  yards  from  the  ship.  The  king  stood  looking 
at  the  vessel  in  silence.  All  at  once,  with  all  sails  set, 
it  bounded  like  a  steed  that,  with  a  single  leap,  prepares 
for  the  race,  and  then  throwing  itself  upon  its  side,  it 
darted  forward  like  a  vulture,  with  outspread  pinions. 
An  officer  was  heard  to  issue  an  order  only  intended  to 
give  the  flying  Themis  still  greater  speed. 

"  Rosetti !  Rocca-Rornana !"  exclaimed  the  king. 
"  Treachery,  treachery !  They  are  betraying  me  !  I 
am  lost !" 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  on 
the  same  spot  where  half  the  night,  through  the  raging 

5 


42  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

of  .wind  and  wave,  he  had  slumbered  in  peace  with  happy 
dreams,  and  where  the  sun,  now  breaking  through  cloud 
and  mist,  cast  its  brilliant  radiance  upon  him  and  upon  the 
waters,  on  that  spot  he  now  lay  abandoned,  despairing,  and 
undone,  and  filled  with  a  dismay  such  as  never  before,  with 
his  courage,  which  had  never  failed  him  upon  a  hundred 
fields  of  battle,  completely  gone.  There  in  sadness  lay 
the  Achilles  of  the  grand  army  as  he  was  called,  like  the 
Trojan  hero  when  he  learned  of  the  death  of  his  friends. 
The  latter  had  merely  lost  a  friend  by  death,  but  the 
Achilles  of  the  grand  army  had  been  betrayed  by  his 
friends,  and  in  an  unprecedented,  sneaking,  and  villain, 
ous  manner. 

"  You  whom  I  raised  from  the  dust,  whom  I  elevated 
from  mere  nonentities,  and  to  whom  I  stood  in  the  place 
of  fate,  and  who,  as  long  as  fortune  smiled  upon  me, 
worshiped  me  as  a  god  !  Is  it  possible  ?  Is  human 
nature  capable  of  such  a  deed  ?  Is  not  this  worse  than 
the  cruelty  of  the  wild  beast,  which  only  tears  and  devours 
its  enemy  ?  They  run  off  before  my  very  eyes  with  my 
shipswhich  was  to  take  rne  to  a  harbor  of  safety,  with 
my  property,  my  papers  and  official  documents,  and  leave 
me  here  upon  the  tempestuous  sea,  in  a  wretched  bark, 
exposed  to  a  thousand  deaths,  and  given  up  as  a  prize 
to  the  officers  and  pursuers.  It  is  worse  than  assassin- 
ation, worse  than  every  deed  ever  committed  by  poison 
or  dagger.  0  King  of  kings,  have  I  deserved  this? 
Speak!" 

With  these  last  words  he  had  sprung  up,  and  raised  his 
face,  his  eyes,  his  hands  to  heaven.  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment, but  only  to  collect  himself  for  the  fearful  answer, 
in  a  fresh  and  fierce  outburst. 

"Yes,  Father  in  heaven,  I  have  deserved  it.     Thou 


Upon  the  High  Seas.  43 

metest  me  even  measure,  for  I  did  a  similar  deed.  When 
he  who  gave  me  my  beloved  wife  and  my  crown,  and  to 
whom  I  was  bound  by  my  whole  life  and  the  holiest  of 
ties,  was  plunged  into  distress  at  the  battle  of  Leipsic,  I 
faithlessly  deserted  him,  and  sailed  away  in  the  ship  of 
my  prosperity,  before  his  face,  and  fled  by,  like  these 
traitors,  with  all  the  treasure  with  which  he  had  laden  my 
ship  of  life,  and  took  flight  to  the  camp  of  the  enemy. 
Thou  visitest  just  judgment.  Heaven,  I  feel  thy  chas- 
tisement in  all  its  power,  and  know  that  it  is  not  yet 
complete.  I  am  a  condemned  man  !" 

He  dropped  like  a  dead  body  into  the  boat,  shaking  it 
with  the  fall.  In  addition  to  the  quantity  of  water  which 
already  filled  it,  the  waves  now  beat  in.  The  king  paid 
no  heed  that  nothing  but  his  head,  which  was  resting 
upon  the  seat  at  the  boat's  side,  was  out  of  the  water. 

Nadir  knew  that  now  he  must  neither  listen  to  the 
king's  lamentations  and  outbursts  of  despair,  nor  reflect 
upon  the  fearful  treachery  of  his  friends;  he  knew  that 
he  alone  was  able  to  think  of  the  danger  which  was 
stretching  out  its  greedy  hands  over  the  edge  of  the  boat, 
to  clutch  the  two  fugitives.  One  more  heavy  wave,  and 
the  skiff  is  filled  with  water  and  they  are  lost.  Oars 
were  almost  wholly  useless,  for  the  overburdened  craft 
obeyed  no  longer  the  boatman,  but  the  billows  which 
drove  it  backward  and  forward.  These  usually  so 
placid  and  busy  waters  were  now  deserted,  for  the  state 
of  things  upon  the  southern  coast  of  France  had  kept 
merchantmen  away  ;  however  eagerly  Nadir  strained  his 
eyes,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  save  the  treacherous 
ship.  It  was  all  they  had  to  look  to,  and  therefore  not- 
withstanding the  treachery,  Nadir  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  it,  in  hope.  But  it  flew  on,  its  sails  filled  by  the 


44  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

hurricane,  as  if  hastening  like  a  murderer  to  escape 
from  the  scene  of  his  crime.  Yet  see — Nadir's  eye 
gazed  fixedly — the  jolly-boat  is  lowered^  a  boat  has  put 
off.  .Do  they  repent?  No,  the  Themis  pursued  its 
course,  but  the  shallop  was  indeed  making  its  way  toward 
the  king;  three  men  guided  it  with  vigor  and  skill;  they 
made  the  stormy  waves  obey  them,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  the  tempest  which  was  striving  against  them,  be- 
came their  servant.  But  might  not  the  three  men  in  the 
shallop  be  also  traitors,  commissioned  assassins,  who 
sought  to  sink  with  the  frail  craft  the  witness  and  victim 
of  their  crime,  in  the  depths  of  the  sea  ?  One  single 
blow,  indeed,  of  their  strong  and  deep  boat,  and  the  king 
and  his  pilot  are  buried  beneath  the  waters.  Nadir 
dropped  one  oar  and  stood  up  waving  the  other  in  the 
air,  like  a  weapon,  resolved  not  to  yield  up  his  life  and 
that  of  the  king,  without  a  struggle.  There  would,  how- 
ever, be  greater  hope  of  success  if  the  Achilles  of  the 
grand  army  should  take  part  in  the  combat;  it  might 
then  be  even  possible  to  obtain  possession  of  the  enemy's 
boat,  and  in  that,  thought  Nadir,  he  would  surely  pilot 
the  unhappy  king  to  some  friendly,  though  ever  so  dis- 
tant shore.  He  therefore  cried  out:  " Up,  your  Majesty, 
a  combat  is  before  us  !" 

The  king,  however,  did  not  stir.  Nadir  repeatedly  en- 
deavored to  arouse  him  from  his  deep  depression,  but  in 
vain.  So  he  stood  there  alone,  with  the  oar  upon  his 
shoulder,  anxiously  anticipating  the  next  few  minutes, 
and  hoping  that  if  the  worst  ensued,  the  conflict  might 
awaken  the  king.  He  took  comfort  from  the  fact  that 
the  Themis  was  sailing  farther  and  farther  away  while 
the  yawl  came  nearer  and  nearer,  thus  constantly  in- 
creasing the  distance  between  the  two.  If  the  traitors 


Upon  the  High  Seas.  45 

in  the  Themis  were  in  league  with  the  three  men  in  the 
shallop,  they  would  wait  for  them.  The  inference  was  cor- 
rect; the  three  men  already  beckoned  to  them  and  hailed 
them  in  the  distance,  and  from  time  to  time  swung  their 
hats  in  the  air;  they  shouted  also,  but  their  voices  were 
unheard  amid  the  raging  of  the  storm.  At  last  they 
were  so  near  that  each  tone  could  be  distinguished,  and 
finally  there  came  distinctly  resounding  over  the  billows 
the  cry : 

"  Vive  Abukir!  Vive  Marengo!  Vive  Eylau,  Madrid, 
and  Borodino !" 

The  names  of  his  victories  roused  the  king' like  magic 
from  his  stupor,  and  he  bounded  up  as  light  as  a  feather. 
He  stood  erect,  his  eyes  flashed,  and  he  threw  his  dark 
locks  back  over  his  shoulders,  and  raising  both  hands  to 
heaven,  he  cried: 

u  Langlade,  Donnadieu,  Blancard,  my  friends !  No,  I 
am  not  betrayed,  my  star  has  not  gone  down  !" 

The  deathly  mask  which  even  yet  covered  his  counte- 
nance was  torn  away  as  by  invisible  hands;  life,  hope, 
happiness,  and  triumph  beamed  in  every  feature,  not  as 
though  it  were  a  frail  skiff  with  a  crew  of  three,  but  a 
mighty  fleet,  manned  by  a  countless  host  able  to  conquer 
the  world,  which  was  coming  to  his  succor.  A  man  who 
had  risen  from  obscurity  to  a  throne  and  to  the  enjoyment 
of  a  world-wide  military  renown,  it  was  easy  for  him  to 
look  beyond  and  see  in  the  smallest  matters  the  germ  of 
a  brilliant  future  and  grandeur.  Nadir,  who  was  not 
aware  of  the  rapid  transitions  of  his  nature  and  imagin- 
ation, regarded  him  with  amazement,  making  him  forget- 
ful of  the  sinking  skiff  and  of  the  deliverance  which  was 
approaching,  accompanied  by  the  cries  of  joy  of  the 
king's  friends. 

5* 


46  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

All  at  once  the  king  disappeared  from  his  view;  with 
one  strong  bound  he  had  reached  the  shallop ;  the  skiff 
went  under,  and  Nadir  would  have  sunk  with  it,  had  he 
not  been  seized  by  a  powerful  hand.  It  was  that  of  the 
king  himself  who  grasped  him  by  the  arm,  and  with  a 
vigorous  pull,  lifted  him  over  the  side  of  the  shallop. 
It  seemed  all  a  dream  as  he  suddenly  found  himself  in  a 
safe  boat,  surrounded  by  friends  and  men  whose  faces 
beamed  with  happiness,  while  the  king,  embracing  them 
all,  laughed  with  pleasure,  whereas  shortly  before  all  had 
been  sorrow,  treachery,  and  hopelessness.  The  king 
hardly  noticed  what,  nevertheless,  filled  the  officers  with 
dismay,  namely,  that  he  and  Nadir  had  hardly  entered 
the  shallop  when  the  sea  yawned  open  and  swallowed  up 
the  skiff — and  the  thought  that  a  moment  more  and  help 
would  have  come  too  late,  drew  from  him  not  the  slight- 
est sign  of  emotion.  He  chatted  with  surprising  com- 
posure, and  inquired  after  the  health  of  his  three  friends; 
it  never  occurred  to  him  to  question  them  as  to  the  treach- 
ery of  the  Themis;  he  saw  and  felt  only  that  he  had 
friends  and  adherents  still.  Who  could  tell  how  many 
thousands  these  adherents  might  number,  yet  ?  Nor  «l:d 
he  think  to  inquire  how  it  was  that  his  friends  had  left 
the  treacherous  vessel  in  order  to  come  to  his  rescue  and 
join  him.  That  very  moment  he  could  have  issued  the 
word  of  command,  "Forward  to  Naples!"  to  again  con- 
quer his  lost  kingdom ;  but  Blancard  was  already  seated 
at  the  helm,  and  the  shallop  steered  its  course  to  Corsica. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

VESCOVATO. 

CASTAGNICCIA,  or  the  land  of  chestnuts,  is  a  paradise, 
a  perfect  paradise,  on  a  glorious  isle  of  one  of  the  most 
magnificent  corners  of  the  globe,  and  altogether  the 
sweetest,  loveliest,  and  most  enchanting  region  in  the  wide 
world,  and  yet  it  is  but  the  shrine  that  holds  the  jewel, 
and  this  jewel  is  Vescovato,  the  principal  place  of  Castag- 
niccia.  Fortunate  the  man  who  has  seen  Castagniccia  and 
Vescovato.  It  was  there  where  Count  Buttafuoco — we 
pass  his  castle  as  we  sail  on — invited  that  unhappy  self- 
tormentor,  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau.  Had  that  worshiper  of 
nature  accepted  the  invitation,  he  might  have  learned  to 
know  his  divinity  more  intimately,  and  his  ever-watchful 
mistrust  might  have  been  laid  to  slumber  by  the  noblest 
hospitality  the  world  could  afford,  and  his  diseased  spirit 
might  have  healed.  Where  upon  the  wide  earth  can  be 
found  more  beautiful  tranquillity  than  beneath  the  shade 
of  these  chestnut  groves,  on  the  threshold  of  that  ivy- 
clad  monastery  and  the  margin  of  the  rushing  brook, 
and  in  all  the  paths  and  walks  which  wind  up  and  down 
among  the  hills,  through  luxuriant  vine  regions  and  ave- 
nues of  orange-trees  ?  This  paradise  is  surrounded  pro- 
tectingly  by  high  mountains,  encircled  as  if  by  celestial 
sentinels ;  but  that  it  may  lack  no  heavenly  charm  of 
earth,  these  mountains  separate  in  the  west,  and  the  eye 
wanders  free  over  the  happy  valley  of  the  Golo,  and 

(.47  ) 


48  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

over  the  deep  blue  sea,  across  the  island  to  the  coast  of 
Italy.  Happy,  thrice  happy,  he  who  wanders  here  as 
the  evening  shades  begin  to  fall,  and  whose  breast  the 
little  bell  of  the  ivy-clad  convent,  as  it  rings  for  the 
Ava  Maria,  in  addition  to  the  tranquillity  of  nature,  fills 
with  a  still  higher  peace.  It  is  a  peace  which  all  the 
recollections  of  the  many  deeds  and  personages  of  this 
historical  spot  of  the  war-renowned  island  do  not  dis- 
turb, but  rather  increase,  for  those  who  fought  here  were 
lofty  heroes,  and  the  conflicts  waged  were  sacred  ones, 
struggles  for  the  highest  possessions  of  mankind, — liberty 
and  the  fatherland.  Every  house  and  cottage  has  a  tale 
of  its  own  to  tell ;  in  every  house  men  were  living 
who  had  either  performed  deeds  of  prowess  themselves, 
or  who  could  give  true  relations  of  such  deeds.  Men  of 
most  noble  character  had  been  born  or  had  lived  in 
Vescovato,  and  this  was  the  abode  of  their  most  emi- 
nent chroniclers  and  historians. 

Look,  for  example,  at  that  house  which  lies  a  little 
apart  from  the  other  dwellings  of  Vescovato,  with  two 
stories  projecting  one  above  the  other,  surrounded  by  a 
luxuriant  growth  of  trees,  and  whose  deep  quiet  is  only 
broken  by  the  murmur  of  the  brook  and  the  cooing  of 
the  doves  which  fly  round  it  in  countless  numbers ;  that 
is  the  house  of  the  Ceccaldi ;  beneath  its  roof  were  born 
Ceccaldi,  the  Corsican  historian,  and  Andrea  Colonna 
Ceccaldi,  the  great  general,  who  shared  the  Triumvirate 
with  Gaflbri  and  Hyacinth  Paoli,  the  great  father  of  a 
greater  son,  Pasquale  Paoli.  This  house  stands,  so  to 
speak,  upon  the  further  side  of  Corsican  history;  the 
greater  number  of  the  heroes  of  this  heroic  island 
during  many  centuries  have  been  sheltered  here;  how 
often  have  deliberations  here  been  held  over  the  man- 


Vescovato.  49 

agement  of  the  wars  with  Genoa,  its  hereditary  foe, 
covetous,  cruel,  and  blood-thirsty  Genoa  !  A  sacred  halo 
rests  upon  this  house,  for  it  is  also  a  temple  of  hospi- 
tality ;  it  has  ever  been  a  hiding-place  for  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  refugees  and  fugitives,  and  is  celebrated  for 
its  hospitality  even  in  Corsica,  that  most  hospitable  of 
all  lands. 

Deep  stillness  and  tranquillity  rested,  with  the  glow  of 
an  August  sun,  upon  this  house  and  upon  all  Vescovato 
on  St.  Louis's  day.  In  the  large  apartment  on  the  lower 
floor,  which,  on  the  summer  side,  was  protected  by  shut- 
ters from  excessive  light,  were  assembled  the  occupants 
and  heads  of  the  house,  in  a  partial  twilight;  but  not- 
withstanding the  powerful  heat,  they  were  not  taking  a 
siesta,  but,  seated  at  the  long,  heavy  table,  were  chatting 
now  and  then,  as  the  enervating  sultriness  of  the  day 
would  allow.  At  the  head  was  seated  the  owner  and 
master  of  the  house  himself,  Colonna  Ceccaldi,  an  old 
man  far  advanced  in  years,  whose  hair  fell  in  long,  thick 
locks  over  his  shoulders,  confirming  the  truth  that  Cor- 
sica Las  no  bald  heads.  The  other  and  much  younger 
man  who  sat  near  him,  it  is  true,  seemed  to  prove  the 
contrary,  for  his  head  had  but  a  scanty  covering  of 
brown  hair ;  a  closer  examination,  however,  showed  that 
this  lack  of  hair  was  the  result  of  the  wearing,  for  years, 
of  some  heavy  covering  upon  the  head,  a  helmet  or  some 
other  military  hat,  and  that  the  light  Phrygian  cap  of 
the  Corsicans  might,  with  the  aid  of  time,  restore  it  to 
its  wonted  luxuriance.  Its  poverty  now  merely  served 
to  expose  to  view,  in  all  its  beauty,  the  high  and  noble 
forehead  of  the  younger,  if  indeed  no  longer  young, 
man,  and  harmonized  with  the  eagle  nose,  the  hon- 
est and  open  eyes,  and  the  heavy  military  moustache 


50  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

which  covered  a  kind-looking,  smiling,  and  even  effemi- 
nate mouth.  It  was  General  Franceschetti,  the  son-in- 
law  of  old  Colonna  Ceccaldi,  and  husband  of  his  only 
daughter,  Catharine  Ceccaldi.  His  wife  sat  opposite 
him,  listening  to  him  intently,  as  though  to  atone  for 
the  lost  time,  the  many  years  that  he  had  passed  away 
from  her  side.  Although  her  face  and  form  had  a  mat- 
ronly look,  and  her  youth  had  long  been  past,  she  still 
gazed  at  him  with  youthful  love,  and  with  eyes  which 
spoke  tenderness  and  admiration.  Similarly  engaged  was 
Maria  Benvenuta,  who  sat  beside  him,  holding  his  hand 
and  frequently  exchanging  sympathetic  glances  with  her 
mother. 

Franceschetti,  having  received  his  dismissal  from  Joa- 
chim, his  king,  had,  it  is  true,  now  been  with  his  family 
over  a  fortnight,  but  all  this  time  had  not  sufficed  them 
to  gaze  upon  him  and  hear  him  speak.  Consequently, 
notwithstanding  the  burning  heat  of  the  noonday  sun, 
no  one  had  thought  of  taking  a  siesta ;  during  the  hot- 
test hours  they  seated  themselves  quietly  together,  when 
there  ensued  a  constant  flow  of  questions  on  the  part 
of  his  family  and  answers  on  the  part  of  the  returned 
soldier,  although  just  at  this  time  the  conversation  was 
rather  more  interrupted.  Franceschetti  had,  indeed,  much 
to  relate  ;  having  been  closely  allied,  for  many  years,  to 
the  fortunes  of  Joachim  Murat,  he  had  not,  since  the 
latter  ascended  the  throne  of  Naples,  returned  to  the 
island,  although  at  so  short  a  distance  from  it,  for  it  was 
precisely  at  that  time  when  the  new  kingdom  was  to  be 
transformed  into  a  new  world,  that  Murat  found  the 
presence  of  his  faithful  subject  more  necessary  to  him 
than  ever.  How  much  he  had  passed  through,  during 
the  last  two  years,  since  the  time  when  the  king,  after 


Vescovato.  51 

the  battle  of  Leipsic,  had  sought  to  guide  his  star  beyond 
reach  of  the  Emperor's,  which  was  so  near  its  setting,  and 
thus  preserve  his  own  from  a  similar  fall,  and  since  the 
moment  that  he  had  entered  into  negotiations  with  the 
allied  foes  of  his  brother-in-law,  and  even  endeavored, 
vacillating  hither  and  thither,  to  form  an  alliance  with 
them;  and,  finally,  since  the  time  when  the  Emperor 
having  left  Elba,  he  attempted  to  make  himself  king  of 
Italy,  and  expiated  his  irresolution  and  temerity  at  To- 
lentino,  where  he  lost  both  past  and  future,  and  showed 
himself  as  faithless  to  the  Emperor  as  to  the  allies. 
Pranceschetti  had  much  to  relate  in  reference  to  the  de- 
nouement tf  this  tragedy,  in. which,  to  its  close,  he  him- 
self had  played  a  prominent  part,  for  he,  amid  the  uni- 
versal faithlessness  and  treachery,  had  stood  by  his 
master  to  the  end.  His  wife  and  daughter  had  always 
preferred  a  life  of  retirement  at  Vescovato  to  the  splen- 
dor of  the  Neapolitan  court,  where,  nevertheless,  they 
might  have  held  a  position  of  distinction  among  those 
nearest  the  throne.  Being  genuine  Corsicans,  they  loved 
their  native  land  above  all  else,  but  as  good  daughters  of 
their  country,  they  had  no  other  thought  than  that  their 
husband  and  father  should  be  where  duty  called  him,  in 
conflict  and  danger,  as  became  a  warrior.  Being  com- 
pletely cut  off  by  the  English  fleet  from  communication 
with  the  continent,  they  were  often,  for  months  together, 
without  intelligence  from  him  or  the  mainland.  Frances- 
chetti's  arrival  had  almost  directly  followed  the  news  of 
the  battle  of  Waterloo,  the  second  overthrow  of  the  em- 
pire, the  second  entrance  of  the  allies  into  Paris,  the 
overturn  of  the  throne  of  Naples,  and  the  complete  fall  of 
Murat.  Of  the  innumerable  events  which  were  crowded, 
it  might  be  said,  within  the  space  of  a  few  days,  of  the 


52  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

great  and  sudden  transformation  of  the  whole  world, 
they  received  the  first  exact  information  through  him, 
who,  to  them,  was  their  most  trustworthy  messenger. 
Having  grown  up  accustomed  to  a  simple  life,  associ- 
ating, notwithstanding  their  high  rank,  with  the  other 
inhabitants  of  Vescovato  as  with  their  equals,  of  anima- 
ted, naive,  and  impassioned  natures,  they  were  now  living 
r  all  over  again  with  redoubled  eagerness,  and  as  they 
listened,  their  hearts  and  pulses  throbbed  with  a  sympa- 
thy, a  longing  for  the  conflict,  and  a  thirst  for  revenge 
which  could  hardly  have  been  exceeded  by  that  of  the 
actors  themselves  in  the  great  drama. 

Colonna  Ceccaldi,  the  aged  grandfather,  alone,  who 
had  seen  Pasquale  Paoli  in  arms  and  Corsica  engaged 
in  the  mighty  conflict  for  her  freedom,  and  who  had  been 
a  witness  of  the  old  times  in  general,  and  in  whose  phi- 
losophical spirit  passion  was  buried,  as  it  were,  beneath 
deep  waters,  Ceccaldi,  alone,  listened  to  the  narration  of 
his  noble  son-in-law  with  the  composure  of  a  sage.  Yet 
he  had  never  heartily  sided  with  that  family  on  the  other 
side  of  the  mountains  on  the  eastern  shore,  where  Cor- 
sica and  liberty  were  not  as  fervently  loved  as  upon  this 
side,  the  Bonaparte  family,  who,  while  winning  the 
island  a  great  and  bloody  renown,  crushed  freedom 
everywhere,  and  proved  that  they  had  little  in  common 
with  those  Corsicans  whose  blood  ran  in  the  veins  of 
Giaupolo,  Sampieri,  Gaflbri,  Paoli,  those  distinguished 
men  and  citizens  who  loved  their  kind.  He  sprang  from 
a  period  when  the  Bonapartes  stood  in  light  esteem  in 
the  island  ;  and  what  were  they  now,  notwithstanding  all 
their  conquests,  by  the  side  of  the  family  of  Colonna 
Ceccaldi,  which  had  well  known  how  to  defend  the  island, 
in  triumph,  against  the  Saracens  in  hoary  centuries 


Vescovato.  53 

past?  If  they  found  some  degree  of  favor  in  the  eyes 
of  the  old  nobility,  they  owed  it  all  to  the  circumstance 
that  the  great  Pasquale  Paoli  had  thought  Charles  Bona- 
parte of  Ajaccio,  the  father  of  the  future  emperor,  wor- 
thy of  a  certain  amount  of  friendship.  Besides,  he  very 
well  remembered  the  time  when  the  youthful  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  loomed  up  as  a  zealous  republican,  and  his 
heart,  which  was  as  steadfast  as  a  mountain,  could  never 
be  drawn  toward  one  who  had  shown  himself  so  incon- 
stant, that  from  being  a  defender  of  liberty,  he  had  be- 
come its  greatest  oppressor  and  a  universal  tyrant.  As 
he  made  no  concealment  of  his  opinions  and  of  his  dis 
affection  toward  Napoleon,  and  as  he  had  an  aversion  to 
the  French  republic  at  the  time  it  flourished,  a  government 
which  deprived  Corsica  of  its  conquered  freedom,  and 
which  had  the  audacity  to  drive  Pasquale  Paoli  from  its 
soil  and  force  him  to  die  in  exile,  old  Colonna  Ceccaldi 
passed  on  the  island  as  a  royalist.  The  female  portion 
of  the  house,  Catharine  and  her  daughter  Maria  Benve- 
nuta,  were  pure  Corsicans ;  their  affections  clung  to 
Corsica,  and  to  Corsica  only,  and  they  possessed  in  an 
eminent  degree  all  the  virtues  of  the  women  of  that 
island  ;  they  loved  liberty,  the  vanquished  and  oppressed. 
Franceschetti  was  devoted  to  the  man  whose  brother  in 
arms  he  had  been,  and  to  whom  he  had  sworn  allegiance, 
and  thus  the  little  circle  was  divided  into  three  parties, 
and  this  for  the  simple  reason  that  they  were,  all  four, 
thorough  Corsicans.  From  that  very  cause,  however, 
the  family  tie  was  so  strong  that  this  difference  did  not 
produce  the  slighest  rupture,  least  of  all  now,  when  all 
their  feelings  were  for  the  dethroned  monarch,  upon 
whom  had  fallen,  with  all  its  weight,  a  judgment  which 
had  shaken  the  world. 

6 


54     *  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

To-day  a  report  had  spread  through  Vescovato,  that  a 
ship  had  been  overtaken  in  the  vicinity  of  Bastia  by  the 
English,  who  had  pursued,  examined  it,  and  then  set  it 
at  liberty.  The  little  circle  was  busy  with  the  inquiry 
who  they  were,  who  had  been  thus  pursued. 

"I  feel  easy/'  said  Franceschetti,  "it  has  nothing  to 
do  with  King  Joachim.  I  know  that  Maceroni,  his  agent, 
is  treating  with  the  allies  in  Paris,  and  that  he  himself 
is  negotiating  with  the  Emperor  Francis  of  Austria,  in 
regard  to  an  asylum,  and  that  the  stipulations  have  been 
agreed  to,  as  during  the  late  war,  King  Joachim,  thanks 
to  the  hatred  of  Napoleon,  took  no  active  part  in  it.  It 
was  a  sad  day  for  the  emperor  when  Murat  failed  him 
at  Waterloo ;  he  and  he  alone  could  have  broken  up  the 
English  carres.  No  carre  had  ever  withstood  him.  Wa- 
terloo would  never  have  been  lost,  and  to-day  both  would 
have  been  seated  on  their  thrones.  As  matters  stand 
now,  however,  it  is  as  well  for  the  king,  for  the  allies 
have  no  reason  to  persecute  Murat,  whom  they  were 
even  willing,  when  Napoleon  escaped  from  Elba,  to  ac- 
knowledge as  King  of  Naples.  If  he  is  permitted,  let 
him  close  his  days  in  peace,  unlamenting  what  he  has 
lost,  happy  in  the  remembrance  of  his  brilliant  deeds, 
but  happier  in  the  pleasure  that  a  true  and  loving  wife 
and  beloved  daughter  can  offer  him,— like  myself,"  added 
the  general,  after  a  short  pause,  giving  his  wife  his  hand 
and  his  daughter  a  smile. 

"Amen!"  said  Catharine,  with  fervor. 

"  The  king  is  now  certainly  in  Switzerland  on  his  way 
to  Austria,  where  he  has  sent  his  wife,  from  Naples, 
under  the  name  of  the  Countess  Lipano.  Probably  he 
travels  under  the  same  name.  It  is  a  transposition  of 
the  letters  of  the  word  Napoli,  a  poor,  pitiful  disguise  of 
past  splendors." 


Vescovato.  /     55 

"May  God  and  the  Holy  Virgin/'  prayed  Catharine, 
"  watch  over  his  peace  of  mind  as  well  as  over  the  peace 
of  the  world  !  A  great  tempest  which  shook  the  whole 
earth  has  subsided, — oh,  that  it  might  now  be  as  tranquil 
and  serene  as  after  a  storm  !" 

"  A  prayer  in  which  every  good  man  will  join,"  said 
Colonna  Ceccaldi.  "I  am  old  and  shall  soon  rest  in  a 
peace  which  cannot  be  broken,  but  the  young  need  peace 
in  order  to  learn  what  the  world  has  forgotten  during  the 
past  quarter  of  a  century — namely,  that  love,  calm  re- 
flection, and  profitable  labor  can  reign  upon  earth." 

"  That,"  exclaimed  Franceschetti,  "should  be  first  ac- 
knowledged and  desired  by  the  ruling  powers,  who  are 
now  about  to  decide  the  fate  of  the  people.  If  liberty  is 
not  given  them,  peace  and  love  are  not  to  be  thought  of. 
The  people  now  look  back  and  remember  the  time  pre- 
vious to  that  of  the  falfen  emperor,  and  the  lofty  words 
which  then  resounded  through  the  world.  The  Bourbons, 
above  all,  should  know  that  they  are  returning  to  a 
country  different  from  the  one  they  left.  The  manner  in 
which  they  now  begin  their  government,  however,  will 
render  war  in  France  and  Europe  unceasing." 

"  Whatever  may  happen,  father,"  said  Benvenuta  im- 
ploringly, and  with  a  voice  filled  with  emotion,  "  you 
"have  performed  your  part  in  the  world,  you  will  remain 
with  us.  Your  Benvenuta,  who  has  been  forced  to  pass 
her  entire  childhood  without  you,  will  now  learn  to  know 
in  all  its  sweetness,  the  happiness  of  possessing  a  father ; 
is  it  not  so?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  child,"  replied  the  general  with  emo- 
tion, and  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  head  :  "  I  will  remain 
with  you  and  will  not  again  leave  you.  Have  I  not  al- 
ready donned  my  brown  coat  of  coarse  Corsican  cloth?" 


56  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"It  becomes  you  better  than  your  uniform!"  said 
Benvenuta,  hastily  interrupting  him;  "it's  a  more  beau- 
tiful dress  than  all  the  rich  garments  the  world  can  af- 
ford. To  be  a  Corsican  and  a  Corsican  only,  is  better 
than  all  else  !  Woe  to  the  man  who  should  come  to  draw 
you  again  from  home.  I  would  take  revenge  upon  him 
as  one  who  seeks  revenge  for  a  brother's  blood  !" 

Her  beautiful  black  eyes  flashed;  she  passed  both 
hands  through  her  hair,  throwing  the  mandile,  the  head 
covering  worn  by  the  Corsican  women,  back  over  her 
shoulders. 

"My  true  Corsican  girl!"  smiled  Franceschetti  as 
Serafino,  the  old  servant,  entered  and  announced  that  a 
stranger  was  without,  who  urgently  demanded  to  speak 
with  the  general. 

"  A  stranger  ?     Did  he  give  his  name  ?" 

"  No,  he  said  he  could  give  his  name  to  the  general 
only." 

"  How  does  he  look  ?" 

Serafino  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  is  hard  to  say, 
— like  a  proud  and  afflicted  man ;  like  a  nobleman  and 
a  beggar." 

-"He  is  a  fugitive!"  exclaimed  Catharine,  and  rose 
from  her  seat. 

"  Then  we  have  made  him  wait  already  too  long," 
said  Colonna,  also  rising.  "  Let  us  leave  the  room,  for 
he  will  discover  himself  to  no  one  but  my  son." 

The  old  man  supported  himself  upon  the  arm  of  his 
daughter  and  accompanied  her  into  an  adjoining  room. 
Benvenuta  went  out  by  the  hall  door.  Without  in  the 
dusky  corridor  a  man  was  standing,  who  leaned  against 
the  wall  and  opened  his  closed  eyes  as  Benvenuta 
passed  him.  She  started  as  she  met  their  glance, 


Vescovato.  57 

and  she  was  obliged  to  summon  all  her  self-possession  to 
restrain  herself  from  standing  and  gazing  longer  in 
them.  What  distress  and  what  a  singular  fire  those 
eyes  expressed !  Who  was  he  ?  But  as  the  stranger 
wished  to  make  himself  known  only  to  her  father,  the 
sacred  claims  of  hospitality  forbade  that  she  should  even 
cast  an  inquiring  look  upon  him,  and  fearing  that  she 
should  violate  good  manners,  she  hastened  on  until  she 
stood  beneath  the  chestnut-trees  in  the  court-yard.  She 
was  overcurious  to  know  who  the  man  was,  who  thus 
stood  in  the  passage  way,  like  a  beggar,  and  for  this 
very  reason  she  hastened  so  far  away  where  she  could  see 
nothing  of  him,  nor  hear  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

His  family  having  left  him,  the  general  stood  by 
the  table,  looking  expectantly  toward  the  door.  A 
stranger  entered.  A  cloak  hung  from  his  shoulders,  a 
black  silk  cap  covered  his  head  and  fell  down  over  his 
forehead  to  his  eyebrows,  quite  shading  his  eyes.  A 
thick,  dark,  and  untrimmed  beard  covered  his  face.  On 
his  feet  he  wore  the  shoes  of  a  common  soldier.  His 
whole  form  was  covered  with  dust',  arid  he  looked  wearied 
and  exhausted,  as  though  from  excessive  fatigue  in  walk- 
ing. 

Franceschetti  trembled  without  knowing  why. 

The  stranger  opened  his  lips  and  said  with  a  quiver- 
ing voice  :  u  Will  you  afford  me  hospitality,  protection? 
Will  you  rescue  me  ?  Are  you  loyal  ?  Into  your  hands 
I  surrender  myself.'* 

Instantly  the  general  was  lying  at  the  stranger's  feet. 

"My  King!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  cry  of  surprise 
and  grief. 

Catharine  and  Colonna  heard  the  cry  in  the  other 
apartment;  they  remained,  however,  where  they  were,  as 

6* 


58  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  stranger  wished  to  make  himself  known  to  none  but 
Franceschetti.  Benvenuta  also  heard  the  exclamation 
that  her  fathar  uttered.  She  did  not  stir  from  the  spot, 
but  involuntarily  turned  her  head  toward  the  window  of 
the  lower  room,  and  saw  the  stranger  upon  her  father's 
neck. 

"  It  is  a  friend  of  father's,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
instantly  added,  but  in  a  whisper,  "  it  is  King  Joa- 
chim !" 

She  trembled,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  heart 
were  about  to  stand  still ;  her  cheeks  grew  pale  and  a 
cold  chill  passed  through  every  limb.  She  looked  around 
to  see  whether  everything  near — house,  yard,  and  trees 
— had  not  become  suddenly  and  greatly  changed,  for  it 
appeared  to  her  as  though  some  important  event  had  be- 
fallen them.  "  Father,'*  she  murmured,  "  are  you  to  be 
again  taken  from  us?"  She  then  rose  and  with  her 
head  erect  and  a  hasty  step,  she  passed  out  the  gate  of 
the  court-yard.  There  she  remained  standing,  gazing 
abroad  like  a  sentinel  on  patrol.  He  was  beneath  the 
paternal  roof,  he  came*  as  a  fugitive,  imploring  protec- 
tion, and  already  she  stood  there  as  though  armed  for  his 
defense,  and  her  piercing  eyes  penetrated  the  distance, 
looking  over  the  country  and  down  across  the  plain  of  the 
Golo,  into  the  valleys,  and  into  the  shrubbery  near  by,  to 
see  whether  some  enemy  or  spy  might  not  be  approach- 
ing. She  hearkened  for  any  rustling  in  the  bushes. 
Everything,  however,  was  quiet;  the  inhabitants  of  Ves- 
covato  were  still  enjoying  their  siesta,  and  the  very  birds 
were  silent  beneath  the  heat  of  the  burning  August  sun. 
Naught  trembled  save  the  air  and  Benvenuta's  heart. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BENVENUTA. 

SHE  had  not  been  standing  long,  when  a  hedge  of  ole- 
ander and  pomegranate  bushes  at  her  right  began  to 
move,  softly  and  cautiously,  but  yet  so  as  to  be  percep- 
tible to  her  acute  senses.  She  advanced  a  few  steps  and 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  place  thus  lightly  stirred.  Be- 
hind, the  rosy  oleander  blossoms  and  fiery  pomegranate 
blows,  two  dark  eyes  glowed  out,  eyes  such  as  are  sel- 
dom to  be  seen,  even  in  Corsica,  She  stepped  a  little 
farther  and  exclaimed: 

"  Stand  forth  !     Who  is  lurking  behind  that  hedge?'* 

The  hedge  opened,  and,  obedient  to  the  call,  a  tall, 
vigorous,  but  to  Benvenuta,  unknown  form,  came  forth, 
which  in  garb  as  well  as  expression  and  feature,  seemed 
the  most  striking  of  any  that  she  had  ever  seen. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  harshly  asked. 

"  I  have  come  to  seek  hospitality  and  protection  at 
your  door." 

These  words  forbade  her  asking  a  second  time  the 
stranger's  name  ;  she  simply  said:  "  I  will  announce  you 
to  my  father." 

"  No,  do  not,"  exclaimed  the  stranger  hurriedly;  "first 
tell  me  whether  I  am  right — tell  me  whether  this  is  Co- 
lonna  Ceccaldi's  house?" 

"It  is  the  house  of  Colonna  Ceccaldi,  my  grand- 
father." 

(59) 


60  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"Then  you  are  the  daughter  of  Franceschetti,  the 
noble  general?" 

Benvenuta  nodded  assent. 

"I  have  made  no  mistake  then,  and  what  I  thought, 
as  I  watched  you  from  behind  the  hedge,  is  correct. 
You  are  posted  out  here,  taking  a  survey  of  the  coun- 
try, like  a  sentinel,  to  see  whether  any  foe  or  traitor 
approaches.  Then  he  has  already  arrived?" 

"Who?"  demanded  Benvenuta. 

"  You  are  the  daughter  of  Franceschetti,  and  I  may 
answer  your  question  without  fear  of  betrayal ;  your 
noble  countenance,  itself,  tells  me  that  you  cannot  be 
treacherous.  Has  he  been  so  fortunate  as  to  succeed  in 
passing  your  threshold?  I  mean  the  unhappy  king, 
Joachim  Murat  ?" 

Benvenuta  started,  and  thought:  "Is  it  indeed  he?" 
As  she  delayed  answering,  the  stranger  pursued : 

"  I  am  Nadir,  an  Arabian,  and  his  servant.  I  guided 
the  boat  in  which  he  escaped  from  Toulon.  Three  faith- 
ful friends  met  us  upon  the  open  sea,  and  we  continued 
the  journey  in  their  company.  A  French  ship  which 
we  asked  to  take  us  aboard,  endeavored  to  sink  us;  but 
a  second  received  us  in  a  friendly  manner,  and  we  found 
on  board  it  many  fugitives  from  Marseilles,  who  recog- 
nized the  king,  and  assured  him  of  their  fidelity  and 
love.  After  a  thousand  dangers,  we  at  last  landed  with 
them  in  Bastia,  all  under  assumed  names,  for  the  king 
had  resolved  to  remain  incognito.  Upon  this  island, 
however,  thousands  are  living  who  have  seen  him  on  the 
battle-field  and  at  court,  and  hundreds  to  whom  he  has 
shown  acts  of  kindness.  The  report  of  the  king's  pres- 
ence immediately  spread  through  Bastia ;  the  officers 
and  soldiers  of  the  Bourbons  commenced  a  pursuit  sim- 


Benvenuta.  61 

ilar  to  that  which  drove  the  king  from  Toulon ;  at  the 
same  time,  many  of  the  inhabitants  made  preparations 
to  defend  him.  In  order  to  prevent  fruitless  conflict 
and  bloodshed,  the  king  fled,  by  a  very  circuitous  route, 
here  to  your  father;  I  followed  him  by  another  way, 
and  many  more  will  soon  come  after." 

"They  will  all  be  welcome,"  said  Benvenuta. 

"Yet,"  continued  Nadir,  "it  would  be  well  not  to 
betray  the  presence  of  the  king,  before  a  sufficiently 
large  number  of  faithful  friends  shall  have  met  together 
who  will  be  able  to  defend  him  against  any  attack  from 
Bastia.  The  greater  part  of  them  will  be  unable  to  be 
here  before  to-morrow,  or  the  day  following,  as  the  king 
has  given  commissions  to  many  of  them,  to  which  they 
must  attend;  but  officers  and  detectives  are  already  upon 
his  track." 

"But  how  shall  we  be  able  to  distinguish  between  the 
true  and  the  treacherous?"  asked  Benvenuta  thought- 
fully; "I  do  not  mean  yourself — I  believe  in  you.  I 
see  off  there,  among  the  bushes  by  the  brook,  some 
strange  man  stealing  along;  he  may  be  a  refugee,  but, 
too,  he  may  be  a  spy.  Go  unto  the  court-yard,  Nadir, 
and  keep  out  of  sight  near  by  ;  you  may  perhaps  recog- 
nize the  stranger." 

Nadir  obeyed  her,  entered  the  court-yard,  and  placed 
himself  behind  the  basin  of  the  cistern. 

Benvenuta  stood  once  more  alone,  motionless,  gazing 
over  the  country  with  an  apparently  unconcerned  coun- 
tenance. It  did  not  escape  her  that  the  bushes  were 
bent  apart  here  and  there,  and  shook,  though  very  gen- 
tly, in  one  place  and  then  in  another,  as  they  were 
touched  by  the  stranger,  who  continued  to  steal  nearer 
and  nearer  behind  the  hedge.  At  last,  however,  all  be- 


62  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

* 

came  quiet,  and  every  trace  of  him  had  disappeared. 
She  felt  that  she  must  know  where  he  was,  and  with  a 
a  few  hasty  and  light  steps  she  stood  by  the  shrubbery 
from  which  Nadir  had  come,  just  before.  There  the 
man,  indeed,  lay  upon  the  ground,  gazing  at  Ceccaldi's 
house,  through  a  large  opening  in  the  foliage  at  the 
bottom  of  the  bushes. 

"  Who  are  you,  and  for  what  are  you  watching  here  ?' ' 
suddenly  exclaimed  Benvenuta. 

The  man  started,  and  stammered  out  a  few  incoherent 
words. 

"Why  do  you  start?"  she  asked,  with  a  frowning 
brow. 

"Ah,"  stammered  the  man,  "it  is  easy  for  an  unhappy 
fugitive  to  start — whom  can  he  trust?" 

"Here,  a  fugitive  may  trust  every  one." 

"Oh,  certainly — of  course,  we  are,  it  is  true,  in  Cor- 
sica; fugitives  here  are  never  betrayed  and  given  up  to 
spies." 

He  arose  and  forced  his  way  through  the  hedge 
which,  until  now,  had  separated  him  from  Benvenuta;  he 
then  removed  his  hat,  and  with  a  submissive  mien  asked : 

"Are  you  General  Franceschetti's  daughter?" 

"I  am !"  she  replied,  and  retreated  a  step,  with  a  feel- 
ing of  repulsion  at  the  man's  servility.  He,  however, 
followed  her,  placed  himself  again  as  near  her  as  possi- 
ble, and  whispered,  with  a  prying  look: 

"Will  you  then  tell  me  whether  the  king  has  already 
arrived  at  your  house  ?" 

"Who  are  you?"  again  demanded  Benvenuta. 

"One  of  his  trusty  friends,"  the  stranger  whispered, 
"who  has  come  from  Bastia  to  join  him  here  in  Ves- 
covato." 


Benvenuta.  63 

His  manner  was  in  such  striking  contrast  with  that  of 
Nadir  when  saying  the  same  thing  that  her  doubts  of  the 
sincerity  of  the  stranger  grew  still  stronger. 

" Hearken!"  said  she  in  a  voice  that  struck  the  man 
with  terror,  "he  who  is  guilty  of  lying,  and  who  steals 
beneath  the  roof  of  a  Corsican  as  a  traitor,  never  leaves 
this  island  alive;  death  awaits  him." 

The  stranger  trembled  through  his  whole  frame ;  he 
smiled,  however,  and  attempted  to  make  some  reply,  but 
with  a  single  cry,  he  started  back  toward  the  hedge,  evi- 
dently in  flight,  when  Nadir  seized  him  by  the  neck  like 
a  wild  beast,  and  in  a  moment  plunged  his  knife  into  the 
stranger's  breast.  Only  a  feeble  cry  followed  the  first 
terrible  one,  and  a  corpse  lay  at  Benvenuta's  feet,  while 
the  roots  of  the  rhododendrons  and  pomegranates  were 
sprinkled  with  his  blood.  Nadir,  who  just  before  had 
sprung  from  the  well  in  fearful  agitation,  as  if  forced  by 
an  invisible  power,  now  stood  by  in  perfect  composure ; 
he  even  smiled  as  he  looked  at  Benvenuta,  who  was 
standing  there  as  calm  as  himself. 

"Was  he  a  traitor?"  she  asked. 

"A  traitor  and  an  assassin,"  replied  Nadir;  "one  of 
the  men  who  murdered  my  friends  at  Marseilles.  I 
recognized  him  as  he  stepped  out  from  the  shrubbery. 
I  have  simply  exacted  blood  for  blood." 

Benvenuta  gave  him  her  hand:   "  I  trust  you!" 

He  grasped  it  and  pressed  it  to  his  brow. 

"You  are  not  a  servant?"  she  then  said. 

Nadir  smiled:  "I  am  the  son  of  a  hereditary  prince 
of  Arabia." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  satisfaction,  and  said:  "Come 
in  and  take  some  refreshment.  I  will  send  the  servants 
to  remove  the  body." 


64  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

About  sunset,  Benvenuta  again  left  the  house,  this 
time  bearing  upon  her  head  one  of  those  water-pots 
whose  shape  even  yet  reminds  one  of  the  amphora  of 
ancient  times.  She  descended  the  gentle  declivity  until 
she  reached  the  deep  spring  whose  fresh  mountain 
waters  flowed  in  dense  streams  through  the  heart  of 
Vescovato;  she  then  ascended  the  steps,  set  down  her 
amphora,  and  leaned,  waiting,  against  the  well  curb.  She 
was  the  first  at  the  spring.  By  and  by  she  was  joined 
by  other  young  girls,  both  younger  and  older  than  her- 
self, wrho  did  not  appear  at  all  surprised  to  find  the  gen- 
eral's daughter  and  the  scion  of  that  ancient  family,  at 
the  well.  Benvenuta  evidently  came  there  often,  per- 
haps daily.  They  greeted  one  another,  and  chatted 
away,  as  if  vying  with  the  plashing  waters.  When,  how- 
ever, one  of  the  young  girls  who  were  drawing  water 
raised  the  full  vessel  to  her  head  and  started  to  go  home, 
Benvenuta  said:  "Just  wait,  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you;"  and  when  the  person  thus  addressed  replied 
that  her  mother  would  complain,  if  she  remained  longer 
away,  Benvenuta  answered :  "  She  will  not,  when  you  tell 
her  that  I  delayed  you,  and  why  I  did  so."  So  that  by 
and  by  a  large  troop  of  young  girls,  the  greater  part  of 
the  daughters  of  Vescovato,  were  met  together.  Win- 
dows were  already  opened,  here  and  there,  to  look  at  the 
uncommonly  large  assemblage,  and  a  few  mothers  even 
came  down,  to  learn  what  was  pasing  at  the  spring.  Ben- 
venuta, however,  continued  silent,  while  the  others  in- 
dulged in  jests  to  pass  away  the  time.  But  when  any 
one  of  them  started  to  leave,  Benvenuta  called  to  her  to 
remain,  and  with  really  so  much  earnestness  that  there 
was  no  one  there  who  would  not  have  obeyed  her. 

At  last,  without  leaving  her  place  or  making  a  move- 


Benvenuta.  65 

ment,  and  raising  her  voice  no  higher  than  was  ne- 
cessary to  make  herself  heard  by  the  circle,  Ben- 
venuta began,  in  a  quiet,  simple  manner:  "Listen  to 
me,  Julia,  Emily,  Vanina,  and  you  Maria  and  Seraphina, 
and  all  my  friends,  daughters  of  Vescovato,  whose  names 
are  stainless!  A  great  day  for  Vescovato,  I  think, 
is  sinking  to  rest  behind  the  mountains — a  day  which  is 
destined  to  cover  Corsica  with  glory.  When  a  fugitive 
knocks  at  our  door,  we  conceal,  nourish,  and  protect 
him  until  he  can  escape  to  the  Macchia.  But  what  is 
that  ?  We  protect  him  from  a  few  spies,  or  some  aven- 
ger of  blood  who  is  pursuing  him.  But  this  day  has 
brought  to  Vescovato  a  fugitive  whom  we  shall  perhaps 
need  to  defend  against  great  armies  and  the  whole  world. 
Listen,  my  friends.  Joachim  Murat,  the  King  of  Na- 
ples, is  with  us ;  he  is  pursued  by  officers,  spies,  and  per- 
haps assassins." 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  passed  through  the  assem- 
blage; the  young  girls,  who  already  had  their  water 
pitchers  upon  their  heads,  set  them  down  again.  Ben- 
venuta continued: 

"  To-morrow  morning,  or  to-night  even,  French  sol- 
diers will  come  from  Bastia  to  tear  our  guest  from  us. 
He  comes,  after  having  been  hunted  down  for  weeks  like 

wild  animal,  encountering  great  dangers  from  the  tem- 
pest, hunger,  and  treachery,  to  rest  awhile  beneath  the 
protection  of  Corsican  hospitality.  He,  however,  is  not 
a  guest  to  whom  one  can  say,  '  Go  out  among  the  wild 
brushwood,  and  seek  a  support  there,  among  the  goat- 
herds.' He  must  be  enabled  to  rest  and  take  his  re- 
pose here  as  long  as  it  pleases  him,  until  he  sees  fit 
to  pursue  further  his  lofty  fortunes.  And  what  have 
you  to  do?  You  are  to  go  home  and  tell  this  to  your 

7 


66  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

fathers  and  brothers,  and  they,  in  their  turn,  are  to  in- 
form their  relatives  and  guests.  That  is  all.  The  king 
will  then  be  safe  in  Corsica,-  as  Sampiero  and  Paoli 
were  safe  when  a  price  was  set  upon  their  noble  heads. 
Go!" 

The  young  girls  hurriedly  took  their  pitchers  and  hast- 
ened in  all  directions,  to  their  houses  and  cottages. 

When  Benvenuta  returned  to  her  grandfather's  dwell- 
ing, the  sun  had  set;  the  windows  were  all  lit  up:  the 
servants  were  clad  in  their  holiday  attire,  while  her 
father  met  her  wearing  a  general's  uniform,  and  Catha- 
rine, her  mother,  had  weeping  eyes. 

"My  child,"  said  she,  kissing  Benvenuta's  brow, 
"  every  hope  which  smiled  so  kindly  upon  us,  a  few  hours 
ago,  is  gone.  Have  you  seen  your  father  ?  He  has 
again  assumed  the  dress  of  a  soldier.  Heaven  alone 
knows  Avhat  events  are  to  follow,  and  where  and  how  far 
they  will  again  take  him  from  us.  I  feel  more  sad  now 
than  ever  before,  when  he  has  left  me ;  for  this  time  he 
does  not  go  with  one  blessed  with  prosperity,  but  with 
one  who  is  plunged  into  adversity." 

"Is  not  the  glory  so  much  the  greater,  mother?" 
asked  Benvenuta. 

"  No  doubt,  my  child,  but  I  believe  that  fate  has  im- 
portant events  in  store  for  us,  and  will  not  leave  us  un- 
harmed." 

"No  one  can  resist  the  decrees  of  fate,  mother;  one 
can,  however,  take  his  place  at  its  side  as  an  ally  and  com- 
panion in  arms,  and  this  our  duty  demands  us  to  do.  I 
do  not  know  the  king's  intentions,  but  as  long  as  he  is 
in  Corsica,  and  our  guest,  we  must  take  him  under  our 
protection.  Oh,  mother,  have  you  looked  in  his  eyes  ? 
Who  could  desert  or  betray  him  ?  My  father  wished  to 


Benvenuta.  67 

present  me  to  him,  but  I  implored  him  not  to  do  so ;  he 
must  not  know  that  there  is  such  a  person,  but  I  will 
watch  over  and  protect  him.  I  saw  him  only  an  instant, 
when  he  entered  the  house  in  distress, — that  was  enough." 

"  My  child  !"  exclaimed  her  mother  in  dismay,  "what 
do  you  say?  What  do  I  learn?" 

"Learn?"  asked  Benvenuta;  "when  did  I  ever  con- 
ceal anything  from  my  mother  ?  Do  I  hide  my  thoughts  ? 
Am  I  a  hypocrite?" 

"Are  you  not  the  bride  of  Guiseppe  Galvini?" 

"  I  may  be ;  you  have  promised  him  that  I  shall  be  his. 
But  he  is  in  Bastia  with  the  soldiers  of  Louis  XVIII. 
If  he  comes  with  them  to:morrow  to  Vescovato,  to  seize 
our  guest,  if  he  does  not  defend  him  as  every  Corsican 
should,  he  is  my  fiance  no  longer  !" 

"Do  you  mark  the  workings  of  fate,  Benvenuta •?" 
asked  Catharine,  with  a  quivering  voice.  "It  knocks  at 
our  portals  and  announces  itself  by  the  sundering  of 
sacred  ties." 

"  And  knitting  other  sacred  ties  more  firmly,"  calmly 
replied  the  daughter.  "  I  only  know  that  I  must  now 
act  according  to  the  promptings  of  my  heart;  the  result 
rests  with  God.  What  does  grandfather  say?" 

"  He  says  that  he  is  Syndic  of  Vescovato,  and  even 
if  he  were  not,  while  the  king  remains,  not  a  hair  of  his 
head  must  be  harmed." 

"  See,  mother,  and  yet  Colonna  Ceccaldi  is  an  ad- 
herent of  the  Bourbons.  Distress  and  the  claims  of 
hospitality  are  paramount  to  all  else." 

Catharine  went  sighing  into  the  kitchen  to  look  after 
the  repast  in  preparation  for  the  king.  Before  the  house, 
however,  a  remarkable  change  had  taken  place.  The 
great  square  of  Vescovato  was  completely  fille.d  with 


68  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

armed  men,  for  the  young  girls  had  hardly  returned  from 
the  spring,  \vhen  men  with  double-barreled  guns  upon 
their  shoulders  emerged  from  every  door.  They  assem- 
bled together  and  then  separated,  going  singly  and  by 
groups  out  of  the  town,  to  a  spot  which  commanded 
the  road  to  Bastia.  Outposts  were  stationed  com- 
pletely around  Vescovato,  and  watchfires  burned  upon 
the  solitary  hill-tops  in  every  direction,  as  well  as  upon 
the  square,  where  the  greater  part  of  the  multitude 
remained  assembled.  The  people  of  Vescovato  meant 
to  make  no  concealment  of  the  fact  that  they  were  turn- 
ing the  place  into  a  camp,  to  protect  the  slumbers  and 
repose  of  the  fugitive  king.  Jwo  men  stood,  a  guard  of 
honor,  at  the  entrance  of  Colonna's  court-yard.  All, 
however,  was  still  around,  there  was  no  voice  of  singing 
or  shouting,  and  no  sound  save  the  crackling  of  the  fire 
in  the  center  of  the  square. 

Before  one  of  the  windows  in  the  upper  story  of  Co- 
lonna's house,  stood  Joachim  Murat  looking  smilingly 
out.  Was  it  the  reflection  from  the  bon-fires,  or  from  his 
soul  which  spread  so  dee.p  and  joyous  a  flush  over  his 
cheeks?  He  gazed  at  camp  life  and  his  heart  revived. 
He  was  another  man  once  more,  and  no  longer  seemed 
like  the  beggar  who  had  that  afternoon  entered  the 
house  of  him  who  was  to  be  his  future  servant,  uncer- 
tain whether  he  should  be  received  or  not.  He  then 
felt  that  death  was  gnawing  at  his  ^heart,  for  his 
experience  had  been  a  deadly  one.  The  three  naval 
officers  who  had  rescued  him  upon  the  high  seas,  and 
inspired  him  with  so  much  hope,  had  also  deserted 
him  when  they  arrived  at  Bastia.  They  were  not 
traitors,  and  would  take  no  part  in  the  treachery  of  the 
Themis,  nor  allow  the  king  to  sink  in  a  leaky  skiff,  upon 


Benvenuta.  69 

the  wide  waters;  but  the  adventurous  ideas  which  they 
had   been    the    means    of    arousing,    were    not    shared 
by  them.     They  had  no  faith  in  his  future,  they  did 
not  believe  that    the   star  of   Murat  could   rise  again 
after  the  sun  of  Austerlitz  had  set  forever;  they  even 
considered  it  their  duty  to  desist  from  everything  that 
could  subject  the  weary  world,  which  stood  so  in  need  of 
peace,  to  fresh  disquiet,  and  to  undeceive  Joachim  whose 
departed  hopes  they  had  again  revived.     Content  with 
having  rescued  him,  they  declared  to  him  that  they  in- 
tended to  leave  him,  and  even  though  they  could  not 
adapt  themselves  to  the  new  order  of  things  in  France, 
they  would  withdraw  to  a  life  of  retirement,  and  en- 
deavor to  save  what  could  yet  be  saved  in  France,  of  the 
wrecked  and  noble  remains  of  the  revolution.     The  de- 
fection of   his   three    preservers  was    a  death-blow  to 
Murat;  but  what  was  that  defection  now,  when  having 
barely  made  his  appearance  here,  he  already  saw  a  host 
of  armed  men  around  him  ?     What  hidden  germ  of  the 
future  might  rest  in  this  little  camp  ?     Are  not  the  Cor- 
sicans  the  bravest  nation  upon  the  earth  ?     Have  they 
not  in  all  ages  coped  with  superior  armies,  even  with 
France  herself,  whom  they  repeatedly  vanquished  ?  What 
if  they  made  his  cause  their  own  ?     Napoleon  returned 
from  the  Island  of  Elba  with  a  handful  of  soldiers  to 
conquer  France,  an  empire  which  he  had  rendered  mis- 
erable.    He,  Murat,  had  done  so  much  for  Naples;  he, 
first,  had  made  it  a  civilized  country  and  a  free  one, — 
would  it  not  advance  to  meet  him  ?     With  the  Corsican 
nation  in  his  rear  and  a  grateful  people  in  his  van,  would 
it  be  difficult  for  him  to  obtain  possession   of  his  land 
again  ?     Murat  began  to  dream.     There  was  never  per- 
haps, upon  the  earth,  any  man  who  so  willingly  gazjed  at 

7* 


70  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  future  in  its  brightest  light,  and  who  so  quickly  and 
easily  was  inspired  with  courage  for  the  most  hazardous 
undertakings,  as  this  innkeeper's  son,  at  a  later  day  the 
theological  student  of  Cahors. 

In  this  happy  state  of  mind  he  would  have  delighted 
to  pass  out  among  the  armed  men,  well  pleased  to  speak 
a  word  to  them  and  infuse  into  their  bosoms  a  spark  of 
enthusiasm  for  him  and  his  cause.  He  could  have  shown 
himself  to  them  as  a  king,  for  he  no  longer  presented 
the  pitiable  appearance  he  bore  when  he  came  that  day, 
but  now  stood  there  in  all  the  magnificence  of  his  best 
days.  Franceschetti,  who  was  his  adjutant  in  Naples, 
had,  while  others  laid  aside  jewels  and  money,  taken 
nothing  away  with  him  as  a  souvenir  of  the  king  to  whom 
he  owed  so  much,  save  one  of  Murat's  suits  of  clothing. 
When  he  brought  it  to  the  king,  it  seemed  to  him  as 
though,  with  his  garments,  Franceschetti  had  given  him 
his  rank  and  the  olden,  happy  time.  He  hastily  put  on 
the  rich  attire  which  once  was  known  throughout  the 
whole  army,  and  in  which  he  was  recognized  by  every 
one.  It  abounded  in  gold  lace,  and  upon  the  table  lay 
the  hat  with  its  tall  white  plume  of  heron  feathers,  which 
had  served  as  a  standard  upon  many  a  battle-field.  The 
watchfires,  too,  were  burning  without.  Might  not  he  too 
believe  that  he  was  about  to  enter  upon  a  new  and  bril- 
liant career.  Fortune  does  not  raise  a  man  to  so  high 
a  position  to  tread  him  again,  forever  in  the  dust. 
Who  can  be  certain  that  Napoleon  will  die  in  captivity? 
And  did  not  Bernadotte,  who  on  this  island  labored  upon 
the  road  like  a  common  soldier,  carrying  stones  and  rub- 
bish, stand  upon  the  steps  of  the  Swedish  throne  to 
shortly  after  seat  himself  upon  it,  the  throne  of  the 
renowned  Gustavus,  the  great  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and 
the  hero-hearted  Charles  the  Twelfth? 


Benvenuta.  71 

Murat  was  disturbed  in  the  midst  of  his  reflections, 
but  in  a  way  that  well  pleased  him.  The  door  flew  open 
and  a  man  lay  before  him,  who,  extending  his  arms, 
exclaimed:  "Dare  I  embrace  the  feet  of  my  king?" 

Serafino,  the  old  family  servant,  stood  in  the  door 
shaking  his  head;  he  had  vainly  endeavored  to  keep  out 
the  intruder;  he,  however,  felt  easy,  as  he  saw  the  king 
recognize  him  with  joyful  surprise,  and  exclaimed: 

"Am  I  not  mistaken?     Is  it  you,  my  steward?" 

"It  is,"  replied  the  other;  "yes,  your  Majesty,  yours 
until  death,  your  faithful  Carabelli !" 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  Serafino  again  shook  his 
head;  he  went  out,  however,  feeling  it  improper,  as  the 
king  had  received  the  stranger  with  pleasure  as  an  old 
acquaintance,  to  stand  longer  in  the  doorway.  As  he 
went  away,  however,  he  repeatedly  murmured,  "  Cara- 
belli !  Carabelli !  It  is  a  bad  name !  The  Carabelli  are 
of  bad  blood!" 

Scenes  similar  to  that  with  Carabelli  were  repeated 
many  times  that  afternoon,  for  Bastia  had  for  several 
weeks  been  a  place  of  reunion  for  many  French  refu- 
gees, who  after  Napoleon's  fall  sought  to  escape  from  the 
first  rage  of  the  "  pale  terror,"  and  the  number  of  whom, 
after  the  assassination  of  General  Brune  at  Avignon, 
and  scenes  of  a  similar  description,  constantly  increased. 
They  were  joined  by  those  Frenchmen  who  had  served 
under  Murat  in  Naples,  and  by  Italians,  who,  suspected 
of  being  partisans  of  Murat,  sought  to  flee  from  the  per- 
secutions of  the  restored  Neapolitan  Bourbons.  Func- 
tionaries and  officers  of  high  rank  were  among  these 
refugees;  shortly  before  powerful  and  respected,  they 
had  now,  by  the  events  which  had  riven  the  ground 
beneath  their  feet,  become,  so  to  speak,  adventurers. 


72  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

However  much  noble  blood  there  was  among  them,  there 
might,  as  Serafino  affirmed  of  Carabelli,  be  much  bad 
and  mixed  blood,  as  well.  Loitering  around  in  idleness 
in  Bastia  as  being  the  place  of  retreat  nearest  France 
and  Italy,  some  of  them  frivolous  and  some  sad,  they 
were  suddenly  excited  by  the  report  that  Murat  had 
landed.  The  name  of  Murat  was  one  with  the  mention 
of  which  new  undertakings  were  immediately  associated. 
Those  who  had  not  seen  him  in  adversity,  were  unable  to 
think  of  him  as  anything  but  brilliant,  splendid  and 
prosperous.  He  was  the  only  one  who  had  not  disap- 
peared amid  the  general  shipwreck  of  everything  con- 
nected with  Napoleon,  and  was  the  standard  around 
which  they  could  yet  rally.  The  greater  number  of  these 
refugees  had  no  further  losses  to  fear,  and  any  movement 
whatever  might  prove  a  benefit  to  them;  and  thus  the 
men  who  for  years  had  been  soldiers,  easily  became  ad- 
venturers.  Some  few,  of  course,  were  actuated  by  noble 
motives.  Gratitude,  loyalty,  sympathy,  or  a  thorough 
scorn  of  the  French  Bourbons,  as  well  as  those  of  Na- 
ples, drove  them  to  the  last  representative  of  the  epoch 
which  had  witnessed  the  overthrow  of  the  Bourbons  and 
the  old  regime.  They  were  sufficiently  numerous  to 
have  soon  searched  Bastia  and  convinced  themselves  that 
Murat  was  no  longer  there;  there  was  therefore  no 
doubt  that  he  should  be  looked  for  at  Franceschetti's, 
and  hardly  an  hour  after.  Carabelli's  arrival,  Colonna 
Ceccaldi's  house  was  almost  overrun  by  the  throngs 
of  functionaries  and  officers  of  the  deposed  emperor 
and  of  the  fugitive  king.  Those  who  visited  Murat 
under  such  circumstances,  uncertain  as  to  his  or. their 
own  future,  were  very  naturally  resolved,  either  from 
old  habit  or  from  respect  for  the  fallen  prince,  to  treat 


JSenvenuta.  73 

him  as  king.  The  greater  part  of  them  wore  their  uni- 
form, and  it  was  long  before  midnight  when  Murat  saw 
himself  surrounded  by  a  large  court,  and  the  dreams  in 
which  he  had  previously  been  indulging  in  solitude,  now 
began  to  be  realized  in  a  manner  that  was  encouraging  in 
its  rapidity  of  action  unexpected,  and  almost  miraculous. 
An  army  of  volunteers  was  encamped  before  the  house; 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  watchfires  were  seen  which 
had  been  kindled  in  his  defense,  and  which  were  already 
answered  by  other  flaming  signals  on  the  high  mountain 
tops  and  the  distant  hills.  Within  the  house  was  a  band 
of  brave  men  which,  the  day  following,  would  be  increased 
by  still  greater  numbers,  and  who  could  not  but  be  sup- 
posed to  have  been  led  thither  by  loyalty  and  a  spirit  of 
self-sacrifice,  rather  than  by  motives  of  self-interest. 
Might  not  then  Murat's  heart  beat  high  with  hope  and 
his  handsome  features  grow  radiant  with  pleasure?  He 
was  as  charmingly  amiable  and  full  of  majesty  that 
evening  as  he  had  ever  been  on  his  most  brilliant  days, 
upon  the  most  brilliant  throne  of  the  world. 

The  throng  in  his  apartments  was  so  great  that  Cara- 
belli  was  able  to  slip  out  unobserved.  He  paced  slowly 
up  and  down  before  the  house,  looking  in  the  direction 
of  the  road  leading  from  Bastia,  and  which  was  partially 
lit  up  by  the  watchfires,  with  an  attention  which  could  be 
manifested  only  by  a  tried  friend  who  was  on  the  alert 
for  the  enemy.  As  he  saw  upon  a  part  of  the  road  upon 
which  the  light  fell,  a  man  approaching,  wearing  the  uni- 
form of  a  Neapolitan  captain,  he  commenced  walking 
more  rapidly.  To  the  challenge  of  the  sentinels,  the 
new-comer  haughtily  replied :  "  It  is  Simon  Carabelli,  cap- 
tain under  his  Majesty,  Joachim  Murat."  The  guards 
allowed  him  to  pass,  but  before  he  could  enter  the  court, 


74  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  waiting  Carabelli  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  drew 
him  beneath  the  shade  of  the  chestnut-trees. 

"Is  it  you,  brother?"  asked  the  new-comer.  "  How 
do  matters  stand  ?" 

"  They  are  playing  court,  inside  there,"  replied  the 
other,  "but  I  know  Murat  but  poorly,  if  he  does  not  soon 
mean  to  convert  the  farce  into  grave  earnest.  To  be 
sure,  he  is  constantly  speaking  of  his  journey  to  Austria, 
and  of  a  quiet  private  life,  and  the  like,  but  we  very  well 
know  how  easily  his  weak  head  is  turned.  He  can  never 
hold  out  against  'your  Majesty*  here,  and  'your  Majes- 
ty' there;  his  brain  will  soon  be  turned.  And  these 
precious  country  people,  who  have  just  what  knowledge 
of  the  world,  the  waves  of  the  sea  have  washed  ashore 
on  the  island,  will  be  blockheads  enough  to  do  their  part 
too,  in  completely  turning  his  head  and  making  him  be- 
lieve that  the  whole  world  is  ready  to  lay  down  their 
lives  for  him.  You  must  sacrifice  yourself  and  deny 
yourself  the  sight  of  this  comedy;  you  must  go  to  Na- 
ples." 

"To  Naples?  I  understand;  but  before  leaving,  I 
would  like  very  much  to  look  in,  and  see  how  matters 
stand  there." 

"You  must  not,  it  is  fortunate  that  I  have  stopped  you 
before  the  door.  You  must  never  have  seen  him  in  Cor- 
sica; you  must  return  to  Ferdinand,  at  Naples,  unsus- 
pected of  and  free  from  any  Murat-ism.  There,  you 
will  therefore  remain.  I  will  keep  you  informed  of  what 
passes.  You  shall  receive  news  by  every  mail  as  to  the 
course  things  take.  One  side  must  win.  If  the  man  in 
the  house  yonder,  does,  then  I  shall  have  been  a  faithful 
servant  in  a  period  of  despondency;  and  if  Ferdinand, 
then  you  will  have  been  the  first  to  warn  him  of  the  ap- 


Benvenuta. 


75 


preaching  storm.  Besides,  there  is  no  doubt  how  the 
affair  will  end;  Murat  cannot  contend  with  all  Europe. 
So  that  it  will  do  no  harm  if  you  mention  me  in  Naples, 
as  the  source  of  your  information." 

The  captain  was  not  as  quick  of  comprehension  as  his 
brother;  the  latter  had  therefore  much  to  explain  to 
him,  and  it  was  far  in  the  night  before  he  set  out  upon 
his  return  to  Bastia.  Murat's  former  steward,  like  other 
strangers,  went  to  apply  at  one  of  the  cottages  in  Ves- 
covato  for  hospitality.  He  reconsidered  the  matter, 
however,  and  then  ascended  the  mountain  and  pulled  the 
bell  of  the  Capuchin  convent,  where  the  highest  officers 
of  Murat's  command  had  procured  shelter. 


CHAPTER  VI.  < 

THE   OUTLAWS. 

SERAFINO,  the  old  domestic,  had  at  all  times  been  ac- 
customed to  confide  all  his  doubts  and  concerns  to  Ben- 
venuta;  of  her,  therefore,  after  having  waited  for  Car- 
abelli  at  the  door  of  the  king,  and  watched  him  from  a 
distance  until  he  had  disappeared  with  his  brother  be- 
neath the  chestnut-trees,  he  went  in  search. 

"  Signorina,"  he  then  said,  "  one  of  the  Carabelli  has 
had  an  interview  with  the  king,  and  his  majesty  received 
him  as  an  intimate  friend. " 

"  The  king  does  not  know  that  the  Carabelli  have  bad 
blood  in  their  veins,"  she  replied;  "  until  now,  however, 
there  has  been  nothing  to  betray." 

"  Carabelli,"  continued  the  servant,  "then  had  some 
private  conversation  with  a  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  Ne- 
apolitan captain,  whereupon  the  latter  started  in  haste 
toward  Bastia." 

"It  must  have  been  his  brother,"  said  Benvenuta, 
after  a  moment's  thought;  "perhaps  it  would  be  well  if 
he  should  not  reach  Bastia." 

Serafino's  eyes  brightened  up.  "  If  you  think,  Ben- 
venuta, that  he  has  gone  to  plot  treachery,  my  old  limbs 
are  nimble  enough  to  overtake  him  in  the  woods  between 
Borgo  and  Oletta,  and  my  hands  are  steady  enough  to 
aim  a  rifle  straight." 

"  Do  not  do  so,  my  good  Serafino ;  you  are  too  old  to 
(76) 


The  Outlaws.  77 

draw  a  vendetta  upon  your  head  and  live  in  the  woods 
like  a  bandit." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Serafino,  "if  that  is  all,  the  Cara- 
belli  are  cowards,  and  I  should  not  be  obliged  to  take 
refuge  in  the  Macchia  on  their  account." 

"  But  the  Stefani  are  relatives  of  theirs,  Serafino,  and 
they  are  no  cowards  and  would  not  permit  the  honor  of 
their  family  to  go  unrevenged.  No,  no,  you  must  not 
think  of  it.  The  affair  must  now  be  undertaken  on  a 
broader  scale,  on  one  so  broad  that  all  vendettas  mu^ 
rest  awhile,  as  during  the  brilliant  period  in  the  history 
of  Corsica,  when  the  freedom  and  honor  of  the  land  were 
at  stake.  Corsica  must  declare  herself  so  powerfully 
for  her  guest  that  there  will  be  no  occasion  to  fear  the 
treachery  of  single  individuals.  Serafino,"  she  con- 
tinued, after  reflecting  a  moment,  "  will  you  accompany 
me  upon  a  dangerous  expedition?" 

"  To  the  infernal  regions,  my  lady!" 

"  But  no,  it  will  not  do,  your  absence  will  be  noticed. 
You  must  remain  at  home,  and  if  my  disappearance  is 
remarked,  state  that  I  have  gone  to  pass  the  night  down 
at  Julia's,  to  get  rest,  away  from  the  noise.  Send  the 
Arabian  to  me." 

"  The  Arabian  ?"  asked  Serafino,  in  surprise. 

"Do  you  not  think  him  trustworthy?" 

"  Oh  yes,  no  doubt ;  he  looks  like  sagacity  and  honesty 
itself.  But  where  are  you  going  with  him  ?" 

"To  the  Macchia !" 

"  Holy  Mo.ther  !  And  by  night !  Take  me  with  you, 
Signorina !" 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  the  man  who  has  already 
assassinated  one  of  your  brothers,  is  concealed  there  ? 
No,  send  me  the  Arabian ;  his  absence  will  not  be  re- 


78  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

marked,  and  there  is  no  one  bent  on  taking  revenge  for 
blood  that  has  been  shed,  whom  he  need  to  fear.  As  a 
foreigner  he  will  be  safe." 

Serafino  made  some  further  objection;  but  knowing 
Benvenuta's  strong  will,  he  soon  went  out  and  sent  the 
Arab  to  her. 

"Nadir,"  said  she,  "you  see  how  quickly  and  will- 
ingly my  countrymen  have  taken  arms  in  defense  of  the 
king :  many  brave  Frenchmen  and  Italians  who  have 
congregated  as  refugees  at  Bastia,  have  also  joined  us, 
but  yet  the  entire  force  is  not  sufficiently  strong  to  repel 
the  troops,  should  they  come  against  the  king.  Other 
men  of  energy  and  valor  must  lend  their  aid  to  the 
bravest  sons  of  Corsica,  who  have  proved  that  they  well 
understand  how  to  annihilate  an  enemy,  and  who,  beside, 
hate  the  soldiers  of  France  as  deadly  foes.  I  will  see 
that  this  aid  is  procured.  But  I  have  a  long  journey 
to  take,  and  you  shall  accompany  me." 

She  went  to  her  room,  from  which,  however,  she  shortly 
after  returned,  wrapped  in  a  light  mantle.  When  she 
reached  the  court-yard,  she  drew  up  the  hood  and  cov- 
ered her  head  and  face,  exposing  to  view  her  black  eyes 
only,  which  shone  out  through  a  small  opening.  She  did 
not  go  through  the  village,  but  by  a  long  circuitous  route 
behind  the  houses,  until  they  reached  a  beaten  path,  when 
she  still  further  quickened  her  pace.  Notwithstanding 
that  she  moved  so  rapidly,  so  light  was  her  footstep  that 
she  might  have  been  treading  on  soft  carpeting.  Nadir 
involuntarily  assumed  a  like  gait,  and  moved  on  quite 
as  noiselessly  behind  her.  It  was  a  clear  and  lovely 
night,  the  full  moon  had  risen  and  a  wide  strip  of  the 
sea  glistened  in  the  distance  like  a  broad  sheet  of  flame. 
Benvenuta  kept,  however,  as  far  as  possible  from  the  road, 


The  Outlaws.  79 

which  was  illuminated  with  a  silvery  light,  and  went  on 
in  the  shade  of  the  trees  and  tall  bushes.  As  she  passed 
the  chapels  for  the  dead,  on  the  way,  she  crossed  herself. 
But  for  the  luxuriant  flower  world  blooming  right  and 
left,  the  many  bubbling  springs  by  the  roadside,  the 
dashing  waters  at  her  right,  which  wildly  foaming,  now 
lost  in  darkness,  and  now  lustrous  with  the  silvery  light 
of  the  moon,  plunged  deep  into  the  ravine  and  chased 
the  Golo  over  rocks  and  trunks  of  trees, — for  all  the 
magnificent  scenery  of  that  magnificent  country,  she  had 
not  a  glance.  On,  on  she  went  without  stopping,  as  far 
as  the  country  looked  fair  and  pleasant.  Not  until  she 
had  reached  a  point  where  the  path  suddenly  diverged 
from  the  wilderness  as  if  in  dismay,  did  she  pause  a  mo- 
ment on  the  very  borders  of  the  forest,  and  then  sprung 
over  a  ditch  to  at  once  disappear  in  the  thick  foliage  and 
darkness. 

"Here,"  said  she,  "we  can  rest  a  little;  no  one  sees 
us  here." 

Nadir  looked  around  and  saw  a  chaos  of  trees,  bushes, 
and  briers ;  scarlet  oaks,  albatross  and  wild  myrtle  all 
running  together  in  utter  confusion  and  apparently  as 
impenetrable  as  a  wall. 

"  Where  are  we?"  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  In  the  Maechia"  replied  Benvenuta.  "  The  dense 
forest  begins  here,  a  savage  wilderness  which  the  axe  of 
the  woodman  has  never  cleared,  a  primeval  forest." 

And  she  laughed  aloud  as  she  spoke. 

"Why  do  you  laugh  so,  Signorina?"  asked  Nadir,  al- 
most startled. 

"Because  I  feel  glad.  I  am  glad  that  there  are  many 
such  forests  in  Corsica,  for  as  long  as  they  remain,  we 
are  free.  What  can  the  French  do,  with  all  their  bayo- 


80  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

nets  and  cannon,  against  such  fortifications  as  these? 
Free  spirits  fly  here  and  find  shelter.  People  call  them 
outlaws.  What  of  that?  They  are  free,  and  sell  their 
lives  dear.  Come,  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost!" 

"  But  I  see  no  path ;  do  you  mean  to  force  your 
way  through  this  dense  brushwood?"  anxiously  asked 
Nadir. 

"  The  paths  do  not  any  where  extend  as  far  as  the  bor- 
ders of  the  forest ;  they  commence  a  long  distance  in 
the  interior,"  Benvenuta  informed  him  :  "we  shall  find 
one." 

Nadir  took  the  lead,  in  order  to  be  the  first  to  press 
through  the  brush  and  make  a  path  for  her ;  his  hands  and 
face  were  bleeding,  when  Benvenuta  at  last  cried  to  him  : 
"  Come  toward  the  right."  He  followed  her,  and  found 
himself  indeed  in  a  path  where  they  could  proceed  with 
less  difficulty ;  it  was,  however,  narrow  and  dark,  and  as 
densely  covered  overhead  as  if  it  had  been  an  under- 
ground passage.  After  numerous  windings,  it  led  to  a 
clearing  which  appeared  sowed,  as  it  were,  with  huge 
boulders,  and  which,  in  its  ascent  and  descent,  ap- 
proached a  high  mountain,  and  was  but  sparsely  covered 
with  bushes.  Upon  these  rocks,  in  whose  fissures  all 
kinds  of  shrubs  were  growing,  there  stood,  like  specters 
in  the  moonlight,  large-horned  goats  and  rams,  which, 
bounding  and  jumping  at  the  approach  of  the  travelers, 
set  the  perfectly  quiet  spot  in  commotion.  Behind  one 
of  these  masses  of  rock  was  a  hut  of  the  color  of  the 
rock  itself,  and  so  deeply  hidden  that  Nadir  would  not 
have  discovered  it,  had  not  Benvenuta  stopped  before  it. 
It  was  without  windows,  and  resembled  a  huge,  neglected 
tomb  more  than  a  dwelling  for  living,  human  beings. 
Benvenuta  knocked  on  the  wooden  door,  and  immedi- 


The  Outlaws.  81 

ately  the  voice  of  an  old  woman  was  heard  within,  and 
on  Benvenuta  giving  her  name,  the  door  flew  open. 

A  tall,  old  woman,  with  an  erect  and  powerful  frame, 
stepped  out,  with  a  brown  woolen  covering  wrapped 
about  her,  her  gray  hair  falling  in  wild  disorder  about 
her  shoulders;  her  features,  however,  were  pleasing,  and 
her  whole  countenance  expressed  the  most  joyful  sur- 
prise. 

"Is  it  you,  Madarnigella,  my  child?  What  brings  you 
here  so  late  ?  How  is  your  gentle  mother  ? — and  your 
noble  grandfather,  is  he  well?" 

Benvenuta  hastily  answered  her  inquiries,  and  in  order 
to  give  the  old  woman  no  further  opportunity  for  further 
effusions  of  attachment  and  pleasure,  she  quite  as  quickly 
added : 

"  Mattea,  my  dear  nurse,  I  am  in  haste;  I  must  speak 
with  my  foster-brother,  your  Matteo." 

"  You  have  come  at  just  the  right  time,  my  child. 
See,  for  several  weeks  I  have  been  obliged  to  live  with- 
out him,  for  the  spies  were  keeping  a  sharp  watch  for 
him,  and  he  was  forced  to  fly  to  another  forest,  but  now, 
thank  God,  he  is  quiet  here,  for  the  detectives,  they  say, 
have  too  much  to  do  in  Bastia  now,  and  give  the  poor 
outlaws  a  little  breathing  space.  So  my  Matteo  was  able 
to  come  back  to  me.  By  way  of  greater  precaution,  how- 
ever, he  seldom  sleeps  here.  Come,  I  will  take  you  to 
him;  ordinarily  he  is  at  his  cousin  Cesario's,  who  re- 
turned to  the  forest  only  a  short  time  ago.  But  tell 
me,  who  is  that  singular-looking  man  who  accompanies 
you?" 

"He  is  a  foreigner,  and  you  may  trust  him." 
"As  he  comes  with  you,  my  child,  I  will  trust  him 
with  my  Matteo's  life;  that  is  a  matter  of  course." 


82  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

The  old  woman  left  them  and  came  out  again  from  the 
hut,  a  few  moments  afterward,  quite  dressed,  and  ready. 
She  wore  a  girdle  about  her  waist,  a  cloth  upon  her  head, 
and  carried  a  double-barreled  gun  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Do  you,  too,  go  armed?"  asked  Benvenuta,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Whenever  I  go  to  my  son,  I  do,"  she  replied;  "  per- 
haps I  might  come  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was 
hard  pressed,  and  then  I  could  help  him.  I  have  relieved 
him  twice,  already,  and  helped  him  escape  from  the  offi- 
cers." 

They  crossed  the  clearing  in  the  direction  of  the 
copse,  to  the  opposite  side.  The  nurse  walked  along  with 
huge  strides,  exposing  to  view  beneath  her  brown  gar- 
ment, which  was  not  closed,  and  which  was  held  together 
only  by  the  girdle,  her  limbs,  which  were  naked  above  the 
knee.  She  had  a  formidable,  terrible  look,  as,  with  the 
rifle  upon  her  shoulder,  she  thus  strode  on,  by  moonlight, 
over  the  waste.  Living  with  fugitives  and  outlaws,  whom 
she  had  joined  in  order  to  be  near  her  son,  it  had  become  a 
habit  with  her  to  pass  through  the  copsewood  in  silence,  for 
silence  is  the  watchword  of  that  wilderness,  where  more 
rifle  shots  are,  many  a  day,  heard  than  words.  May  not 
each  word  betray  the  outlaw  and  call  up  a  lurking  spy 
or  avenger  of  blood  ?  A  long  distance  was  thus  silently 
passed  over,  as  they  went  now  through  bushes,  and  now 
over  cleared  openings,  here  over  a  rocky  surface,  and 
there  over  soft  turf,  until  Mattea  suddenly  stopped  in  sur- 
prise, and  gazed  at  a  point  where  glimmered  a  feeble  light. 

"What  is  it?"  said  she  to  herself.  "A  light  in  An- 
drea's hut,  and  at  this  hour?  Something  has  happened. 
The  boy  upon  that  rock  there  is  on  guard ;  the  outlaws 
are  assembled,  and  Matteo  will  be  there." 


The  Outlaws.  83 

So  saying,  she  advanced  with  still  longer  strides,  in 
the  direction  of  the  light,  while  Nadir  and  Benvenuta 
followed,  until  all  three  stopped  before  the  window  of  a 
large  hut. 

"A.  tola!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman  in  terror,  and 
staggered  backward.  u  Benvenuta,  my  darling,"  said 
she  in  a  feeble  voice,  "  look  in,  I  have  not  the  courage 
to — look  in,  and  tell  me  whether  it  is  Matteo,  my  child, 
who  is  dead  ?" 

Benvenuta  drew  nearer  the  window.  Upon  a  table  in 
the  room  lay  the  corpse  of  a  young  man.  The  table  so 
used  is  called  the  tola.  The  young  person  thus  still  in 
death  was  wrapped  in  a  shroud,  with  his  head  covered 
with  the  Corsican  baretto,  which  so  closely  resembles  the 
Phrygian  cap.  In  a  kind  of  chimney  a  large  fire  was 
burning,  diffusing  a  flickering,  uncertain  light  through 
the  room,  which  gave  it  a  look  as  though  a  dark  veil 
were  fluttering  back  and  forth  in  the  firelight.  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  Benvenuta  could  fix  her  eye  upon 
the  countenance  of  the  dead  man ;  she  did  not  know 
him,  but  she  saw  that  it  was  not  Matteo. 

"Be  comforted,  nurse,"  said  she,  "it  is  not  your  son 
Matteo." 

The  old  woman  whom  an  instant  had  served  to  dimm- 
ish in  stature,  and  who  was  leaning,  bent  over,  against  the 
side  of  the  hut,  again  drew  herself  up,  and  said :  "  Let 
us  enter,  then,  and  see  whom  we  have  to  mourn." 

As  they  entered  the  room,  they  first  saw  about  ten 
men  seated  around  upon  the  ground.  Each  one  had 
upon  his  arm  his  rifle,  which  the  outlaw  never  lays  aside 
even  when  he  sleeps,  and  wore  around  his  waist  the 
broad  carechera  girdle,  which  is  always  filled  with  car- 
tridges. The  pellone,  the  common  Corsican  coat,  had 


84  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

been  already,  for  the  most  part,  forced  to  give  place, 
among  these  men  of  the  wilderness,  to  a  coarse  gar- 
ment made  of  goatskin.  The  comrades  thus  assembled 
around  the  corpse  of  their  companion  in  adversity,  had 
a  very  wild,  savage  look,  which  grew  still  fiercer  as  they 
rose,  at  the  entrance  of  the  strangers,  and  cocked  their 
rifles  with  a  simultaneous  click,  as  if  at  a  given  signal. 
They  composed  themselves,  however,  and  again  took 
their  seats  in  silence,  when  one  among  them  exclaimed : 
"It  is  my  mother!" 

Matteo  was  about  to  hasten  to  his  mother,  but  she 
motioned  to  him  to  keep  his  place,  and  seated  herself 
near  the  wall  upon  the  ground,  placing  her  arms  upon  her 
knees  and  her  head  upon  her  hands.  Might  not  the  fate 
of  the  dead  man  be  that  of  her  son  on  the  morrow,  or 
even  to-day?  Of  the  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
who  had  ever  fled  to  the  Maccliia,  to  escape  the  avenger 
of  blood,  very  few  had  enjoyed  their  wild  freedom  and 
wretched  life  during  any  number  of  years ;  after  con- 
stant flight  and  unceasing  conflict,  after  a  miserable  life 
of  disquiet,  wretchedness,  hunger,  and  want,  they  were 
at  last  overtaken  by  the  bullet  of  the  avenger  or  of  the 
spies.  The  sight  of  the  corpse  might  well  bring  such 
thoughts  to  the  old  woman's  mind,  and  she  would  not 
therefore  show  her  face  or  let  her  faltering  voice  be 
heard. 

Benvenuta  and  Nadir  also  seated  themselves,  and  no 
sound  was  heard,  save  the  crackling  of  the  flames. 

After  a  long  silence,  the  old  woman  asked,  as  she 
pointed  to  the  dead  man,  "Who  did  it?" 

"This  bullet  here,"  replied  one  of  the  outlaws,  "just 
fits  the  rifle  barrel  of  Romano  of  Oletta,  the  gun  with 
which  he  shot  my  uncle  in  the  public  market-place  in 


The  Outlaws.  85 

Bastia.  I  have  cut  it  from  his  heart,  and  have  sworn, 
as  a  faithful  relative,  that  it  shall  yet  find  a  resting-place 
in  Romano's  bosom/' 

After  a  short  pause,  the  same  man  continued :  "Ugone 
was  a  brave  youth,  but  he  has  no  mother  or  sister  here, 
to  sing  a  lament  for  him ;  mother,  honor  him  with  a 
vocerp." 

"Do  so,  mother,"  urged  Matteo;  "he  was  a  good 
fellow,  and  did  us  many  a  service,  young  as  he  was." 

She  cast  a  sad  look  at  her  son,  and  then,  as  if  sud- 
denly fired,  she  started  up  and  placed  herself  in  the 
middle  of  the  room ;  the  men  also  immediately  rose  and 
formed  a  semicircle  about  her,  facing  the  deceased. 
The  eyes  of  the  old  woman  passed  back  and  forth,  now 
in  sadness,  and  now  lustrous  with  a  savage  fire,  from  the 
deceased  to  her  son,  until  abruptly,  and  in  a  shrill  voice, 
she  began  the  vocero,  that  song  of  woe  which  is  never 
omitted  over  a  corpse  in  Corsica,  and  which,  proceeding 
as  it  does,  impromptu,  from  the  grief  of  the  moment, 
never  fails  to  come  fresh  from  the  heart.  And  thus 
these  laments  for  the  dead  have  been  sung  for  thousands 
of  years,  and  many  of  them  are  the  national  songs,  and 
almost  the  only  ones,  of  these  people,  these  avengers  of 
blood. 

VOCERO. 

"  Millions  of  leaves  fall  to  the  ground, 

Millions  of  flowers  yearly. 
Death  claims  his  home  where  life  is  found, 

To  life  allied  so  nearly. 
The  bud  he  should,  however,  spare, 
Nor  youth  from  hope  and  pleasure  tear. 

"Yet  mock,  0  Death,  and  grimly  fill 
Thy  den  with  laughter  scornful, 


86  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

But  strong  as  thou,  and  stronger  still, 

The  flame  I  fan  burns,  mournful. 
Thou  weav'st  below  thy  victims'  shrouds. 
Revenge  soars  up  and  scales  the  clouds. 

"  So  cold  and  pale  lies  beauty's  form, 

White  as  thy  snowy  cover. 
Thy  soul,  I  hear  the  absence  mourn 

In  death,  of  friend  or  lover. 
A  mother's  heart — what  love  so  deep  ? 
That  heart  will  for  her  lost  one  weep. 

"  Thy  foe  at  home  takes  slumber  sweet; 

May  Heaven's  fierce  curses  meet  him ; 
His  mother  brought  him  savory  meat, 

As  home  he  came,  to  greet  him. 
Grimly  he  laughed,  nor  had  he  need 
Of  words,  to  tell  his  fiendish  deed. 

"  May  Heaven  preserve  his  reason  sound, 

To  warn  him  day  and  night 
That  vengeance,  like  a  fierce  bloodhound, 

Pursues  with  venomed  bite. 
Were  his  sleep  but  simple  clothing, 
Loathing  would  I  rend  it,  loathing! 

"  Slumber  not  too  sound,  thou  dead  one ; 

Hear  the  moan  I  o'er  thee  make! 
Slumber  not  too  sound,  beloved  one ; 

Wake  at  times — awake,  awake ! 
And  see  with  joy  the  vengeance  sweet 
Our  hands  shall  to  thy  murderer  mete! 

"  Aided  has  my  son  been,  by  thee, 

When  the  spies  him  hard  beset ; 
Had  but  his  mother  been  beside  thee, 
She,  not  thou,  had  paid  death's  debt!" 

Matteo's  mother  did  not  utter  this  vocero  in  the  unin- 
terrupted manner  in  which  it  is  written.  The  outlaws 
surrounded  her,  according  to  ancient  custom,  as  a  kind 


The  Outlaws.  87 

of  chorus,  and  often  broke  in,  now  repeating  single 
words  and  now  entire  sentences,  especially  such  as  ex- 
pressed grief  for  the  murdered  man,  or  a  demand  for 
vengeance.  The  chorus  was  a  fearful  one,  for  the  out- 
laws bewailed  their  comrade  in  adversity,  from  the  depths 
of  their  hearts,  seeing  in  his  fate  their  own  destiny ;  and 
vengeance  was  the  emotion  which  inspired  them  above 
all  else,  and  which  had  been  the  cause  of  driving  the 
most  of  them  into  exile.  Mattea  was  so  moved  by  her 
own  words,  that  she  trembled  through  her  whole  frame. 
When  she  had  finished,  she  kissed  the  mouth  of  the 
dead  man, — even  in  this,  performing  the  duty  of  his 
absent  mother  or  sister, — and  then,  exhausted  and  over- 
whelmed with  grief,  she  crouched  down  upon  the  spot 
which  she  had  left. 

The  outlaws  also  were  about  resuming  their  places 
upon  the  ground,  when  Benvenuta  rose  and  threw  back 
the  hood  over  her  shoulders.  Supposing  that  she,  too, 
would  pronounce  a  lament  or  vocero  over  the  dead,  they 
again  formed  a  semicircle  about  her,  but  she  said: 

"I  wish  to  raise  no  lament  for  the  dead  who  has  re- 
ceived the  honor  that  was  his  due,  but  to  say  what  I 
designed  to  say  to  Matteo,  my  foster-brother,  to  your- 
selves, who,  although  from  a  sad  cause,  are  fortunately 
assembled  here.  You  will  say,  'What  has  the  young 
girl,  Benvenuta,  to  say,  if  she  does  not  wish  to  sing  a 
vocero,  and  summon  his  friends  to  avenge  him?'  I  re- 
ply, beside  the  sacred  duty  of  revenge,  a  son  of  Corsica 
has  another  duty  which  is  no  less  sacred — the  protection 
of  the  rights  of  hospitality ;  and  you  who  are  banished 
for  having  performed  the  one  sacred  duty,  are  good 
Corsicaixs  who  will  hold  hospitality  equally  sacred. 
Murat,  then,  the  fallen  King  of  Naples,  is  among  us, 


88  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

having  fled  to  Vescovato,  beneath  the  old  Colonna  roof, 
as  a  fugitive  entreating  protection.  He  is  not  a  fugi- 
tive pursued  by  a  single  enemy  or  a  small  body  of 
officers,  and  whom  my  father,  grandfather,  servants  and 
kinsmen  could  protect:  in  pursuit  of  this  flying  king, 
France  and  Naples,  and,  if  need  be,  the  rulers  of  other 
lands,  will  send  their  armies  and  fleets.  Vescovato  is 
already  in  arms ;  but  all  Corsica  must  arm,  for  it  is  not  to 
Franceschetti,  my  father,  that  he  has  come,  but  to  Cor- 
sica, as  a  land  of  hospitality;  for  in  every  other  country 
upon  the  globe,  persecutions  and  humiliations  await 
him.  Corsica  must  not  permit  a  hair  of  his  head  to  be 
harmed,  while  he  treads  this  land  of  heroes.  I  wish  to 
tell  you  this,  that  you  may  repeat  it  to  the  other  brave 
men  in  the  various  Macchias ;  give  signals,  whatever 
signals  you  have,  for  a  meeting;  send  out  the  goatherds, 
who  know  their  hiding-places  among  the  bushes,  on  the 
mountain  tops,  and  in  the  valleys  and  ravines.  Choose 
parolanti  to  go  to  your  enemies  and  quiet  the  avenger 
and  effect  a  reconciliation  forever,  or  at  least  as  long  as 
Corsica  is  threatened  with  dishonor.  It  is  thus  that  we 
have  ever  acted  when  our  native  land  has  been  menaced; 
it  was  done  under  Sampiero  and  Paoli;  and  what  has 
been  done  for  freedom,  must  be  done  for  hospitality 
also;  for  this,  in  Corsica,  is  as  sacred  as  freedom  itself. 
It  was  this  that  I  had  to  say  to  you;  pardon  a  young 
girl  for  doing  so." 

Benvenuta  had  uttered  this,  hardly  raising  her  voice 
as  she  spoke,  or  moving  a  muscle;  as  she  stood  there 
looking  into  the  faces  of  these  fierce  men,  she  appeared 
perfectly  calm;  but  her  bosom  throbbed,  her  voice 
slightly  faltered,  her  eyes  flashed,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  she  had  grown  taller  by  a  whole  head. 


The  Outlaws.  89 

"My  foster-sister,"  said  Matteo  in  reply,  "you  have 
come  on  no  fruitless  mission.  I  could  almost  shed  tears 
at  your  courage  in  thus  coming  to  the  MaecTiia  by 
night.  We  are  unfortunate  men,  who  have  no  longer  a 
hearth-stone;  but  we  have  a  fatherland,  and  this  the 
French  shall  never  sully.  Let  us  but  bury  the  dead, 
and  we  will  then  send  out  our  signals  and  messengers, 
as  you  command." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  kissed  his  foster- 
sister's  brow. 

Mattea  remained  watching  with  the  corpse,  but  one 
of  the  outlaws  accompanied  Benvenuta  and  Nadir 
through  the  Maccliia,  by  paths  which  brought  them 
surprisingly  quick  to  the  highway.  The  outlaw  re- 
mained standing  some  time  on  the  border  of  the  woods, 
looking  with  longing  eyes  over  the  open  country,  as  if 
he  were  enjoying  a  sweet  sight  which  had  long  been 
denied  him,  and  then  again  disappeared  in  the  thicket, 
while  Benvenuta  and  her  companion  hurried  on  toward 
the  valley  with  rapid  steps,  for  the  loftiest  mountain 
tops  already  began  to  be  colored  with  the  light  of  day. 

The  brighter  the  light  shone  upon  the  peaks  of  the 
mountains,  the  more  rapidly  did  Benvenuta  hasten  for- 
ward: shortening  the  distance,  she  left  the  winding 
highway  to  go  direct  to  Vescovato;  hedges,  cultivated 
fields,  beds  of  brooks  which  had  been  washed  away, 
high  banks  and  steep  declivities, — nothing  could  arrest 
her  progress.  But  the  remnant  of  her  shoes,  which 
had  already  been  torn  to  pieces  on  the  thorny,  rocky 
paths  through  the  Macehia,  soon  increased  the  difficul- 
ties of  the  way;  her  feet  were  bleeding,  and  she  was 
wearied  to  death;  her  long  journey  by  night,  and  all 
that  she  had  passed  through  since  the  previous  noon, 

9 


90  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

had  taxed  her  strength  to  the  utmost;  the  young  girl's 
frame  had  less  iron  than  her  will.  Nadir  saw,  with 
solicitude,  how,  as  she  drew  herself  along,  the  blood* 
from  her  feet  was  marked  on  the  stones;  and  she  again 
and  again  summoned  all  her  strength,  after  a  few  rapid 
steps,  to  again  sink  down.  He  entreated  her  to  rest  a 
little,  but  she  wished  to  be  at  home  before  her  family 
had  awaked;  she  wanted  no  one  to  know  of  the  expedi- 
tion which  she  had  undertaken  during  the  night,  and 
two  high  ranges  of  hills  still  lay  between  her  and  Ves- 
covato.  The  travelers  now  stood  by  a  precipice,  over 
which  they  could  alone  make  their  way  above  the  debris 
of  a  mountain-stream  whose  waters  had  dried  up.  The 
stones  and  shrubs  gave  way  beneath  Benvenuta's  feet: 
she  exerted  herself  as  if  in  a  nightmare,  but  could  not 
advance.  At  last  she  sank  to  the  ground;  and  drop- 
ping her  arms  at  her  side,  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "I 
can  go  no  farther!" 

A  beam  of  the  early  morning  light  rested  upon  her 
beautiful  features,  which  were  pale  and  exhausted, 
while  her  large  black  eyes  sparkled  only  the  more 
brightly.  She  smiled  because  she  blushed  at  her  weak- 
ness; and  this  weakness  and  helplessness  surrounded  her 
with  something  unspeakably  childlike,  which  was  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  strong  and  heroic  nature  which 
alone  Nadir  had,  until  now,  seen  in  her.  A  child,  a 
woman  lay  before  him.  He  stood  there,  with  his  arms 
pressed  closely  across  his  bosom,  looking  with  admira. 
tion  and  sympathy  upon  the  singular  girl.  He  could 
have  thrown  himself  before  her  and  humbly  pressed  his 
brow  against  her  bleeding  feet,  and  then  raised  her  up 
and  clasped  her  like  a  child  to  his  breast.  His  eastern 
soul  was  both  sensitive  and  ardent;  but  he  had  been  too 


The  Outlaws.  91 

long  among  the  people  of  the  west,  not  to  repress  words 
and  tears  which,  at  home  in  the  desert,  he  would  have 
permitted  to  flow  without  shame  or  restraint.  Benve- 
nuta  saw  in  his  eyes  only  sympathy  and  compassion; 
she  gave  him  a  gentle  smile,  and  with  the  most  womanly 
softness  said : 

"You  are  kind,  Nadir,  my  friend!  All  mankind  are 
indeed  brethren:  for  here  a  son  of  the  distant  east 
comes  to  the  aid  of  a  poor  Corsican  maiden,  to  accom- 
pany her  as  a  faithful  protector,  through  dangers  and  the 
night,  and  with  her  to  care  for  an  unhappy  fugitive  who 
is  neither  a  brother  nor  relative  of  either  the  Corsican 
girl  or  the  Arab.  It  is  a  beautiful  deed  and  full  of  en- 
couragement and  cheer ;  and  I  thank  God,  the  Father  of 
the  Mohammedans  as  well  as  of  the  Christians,  for  the 
brotherly  love  which  he  has  sent  over  the  wide  earth,  east 
and  west  the  same,  like  a  lamb  of  the  early  spring-time!" 

"Like  a  lamb  of  the  early  spring-time!"  exclaimed 
Nadir,  and  the  reserve  and  self-restraint  which  Euro- 
pean culture  had  given  him,  melted  away  before  Benve- 
nuta's  words  and  his  own  ardor.  He  fell  upon  *his 
knees  before  her  and  embraced  her  bleeding  feet,  upon 
which  tears  coursed  down  in  flowing  streams.  "You 
are  a  philosopher  and  a  heroine,"  exclaimed  he,  sob- 
bing; "would  that  I  could  die  for  you,  die  at  your  feet!" 

Benvenuta  sprang  up.  "  Come,  let  us  go  on !"  said  she. 

But  she  had  not  advanced  two  steps  upon  the  difficult 
way,  when  she  felt  herself  forcibly  raised  from  the 
ground,  and  she  lay  like  a  child  in  Nadir's  arms. 
Thundering  like  a  torrent,  the  debris  plunged  below 
into  the  ravine,  while  Nadir  flew  upward  with  his  burden, 
as  if  upon  wings.  Arrived  at  the  summit,  Benvenuta 
endeavored  to  disengage  herself  from  his  arms.  "Let 


92  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

me  walk/'  said  she,  "the  remainder  of  the  way  is  less 
difficult;"  but  he  did  not  heed  her,  and  only  pressed 
her  the  more  closely  to  his  bosom,  as  though  some  one 
had  sought  to  tear  her  from  him,  and  he  did  not  mean 
that  she  should  leave  him  more.  Up  hill  and  down, 
on  he  hastened,  heedless  of  rocks,  hedges,  and  chasms; 
and  as  the  morning  wind  began  to  blow  fresh  from  the 
sea,  he  wrapped  his  white  mantle  about  Benvenuta, 
making  him  look  like  one  who  flees  from  robbers,  with 
a  treasure  wrapped  in  the  folds  of  his  clothing.  She 
distinctly  heard  the  throbbing  of  his  heart,  and  watched 
him  as,  breathing  with  dilated  nostrils,  he  now  cast  his 
dark  eyes  abroad  over  the  country  and  now  looked 
mildly  and  fervidly  down  upon  her;  but,  in  her  anxiety, 
she  did  not  dare  to  move  or  to  offer  opposition  to  his 
further  assistance.  She  suspected  that  the  violent 
beating  of  his  heart,  which  she  so  distinctly  heard,  was 
not  caused  by  his  rapid  gait  or  the  burden  which  he 
bore, — and  he  knew  it.  He  felt  happy  as  never  before, 
and  for  the  first  time  he  understood  what  the  Europeans 
mean  by  love.  He  could  have  pressed  forward  thus 
forever,  with  Benvenuta  clasped  to  his  heart,  and  his 
glance,  as  he  cast  his  eye  over  the  country,  seemed  as 
much  to  betray  a  fear  that  some  enemy  might  come  and 
rob  him  of  his  beloved  burden,  as  anguish  at  the  term- 
ination of  this  happy  journey.  His  ardor,  however, 
would  not  allow  him  to  linger  on  the  way,  and  Benve- 
nuta's  wish  to  reach  home  before  daybreak,  was  para- 
mount to  the  pleasure  of  carrying  his  lovely  burden.  He 
therefore  hastened  on  without  stopping,  and  the  houses  of 
Vescovato  and  the  Capuchin  convent  now  were  close  before 
him.  The  close  of  the  most  blissful  moment  of  his  life  lay 
beyond  him:  in  a  kind  of  madness  he  hastened  up  the 


The  Outlaws.  93 

last  hill,  and  upon  a  sort  of  grassy  seat,  which  the 
fathers  had  placed  for  themselves  beneath  the  chestnut- 
trees  behind  the  monastery,  he  gently  laid  Benvenuta; 
and  then,  without  a  look,  sank,  with  a  deep  sigh,  ex- 
hausted and  breathless,  on  the  turf.  There  he  lay  like  a 
corpse.  Benvenuta  gave  him  an  anxious  look:  "Nadir!" 
she  stammered;  but  he  did  not  move.  She  then  bent 
over  and  gently  drew  off  the  mantle  which  he  had 
thrown  over  his  head;  his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  as 
he  looked  at  her,  and  he  seized  her  hand  and  covered  it 
with  kisses. 

In  the  convent  garden,  however,  behind  the  live- 
hedge  which  inclosed  it,  lay  Carabelli.  When  he  en- 
tered the  convent,  the  night  before,  he  found  among  the 
officers  of  high  rank,  who  were  lodged  there,  many 
Corsicans  also,  who  looked  at  him  with  suspicion,  and, 
like  Serafino,  murmured  something  about  the  "bad 
blood  of  the  Carabelli."  He  felt  uncomfortable  in  the 
monastery;  and  in  order  to  avoid  applying  at  a  Corsi- 
can  cottage,  he  went  into  the  convent  garden.  The 
night  was  warm  and  beautiful ;  he  could  camp  under  the 
hedge.  While  there,  he  saw  Nadir  and  Benvenuta  pass 
by,  on  their  way  to  the  Macchia;  he  shook  his  head,  for 
he  saw  that  it  was  the  daughter  of  Franceschetti;  and 
as  to  the  Arab,  he  already  knew  that  he  had  come  with 
Murat.  Whenever  he  awoke  from  his  uneasy  sleep,  he 
looked  in  the  direction  that  the  two  travelers  had  dis- 
appeared. Consequently,  his  prying  eyes  saw  Nadir 
advancing  at  early  daybreak  from  out  the  deep  ravine, 
with  Benvenuta  upon  his  breast;  he  watched  him  as  he 
laid  her  upon  the  grassy  bank,  and  saw  him  weep  and 
cover  her  hand  with  kisses. 

As  they  walked  on  toward  the  village,  Carabelli  rose 
9* 


94  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

and  stretched  his  head  up  over  the  hedge,  to  watch 
them  as  long  as  possible. 

"  They  have  been  to  the  MaccTiia  to  call  the  outlaws, 
and  they  appear  to  have  sworn  eternal  friendship  on  the 
road.  Well,  if  the  outlaws  come,  it  behooves  one  to  be 
doubly  cautious." 

The  watch-fires  had  burned  low  in  the  village  as  well 
as  upon  the  hill-tops;  and  the  young  girls  of  Vescovato, 
with  their  large  copper-handled  pitchers  upon  their 
heads,  were  on  their  way  to  the  fountain. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

NEGOTIATIONS. 

IN  order  to  understand  the  events  of  this  and  the  follow- 
ing days,  it  must  be  stated  that  more  than  two  thousand 
officers  of  Corsican  birth  had  acknowledged  Marat  as  their 
general  and  king.  Such  of  these  as  had  passed  through 
the  numerous  and  sanguinary  battles  of  the  last  few 
years  with  their  lives,  had  now  met  in  their  native  land. 
From  Bastia  and  the  adjoining  country  they  had  come 
the  very  first  day,  and  from  more  distant  places,  as  soon 
as  the  intelligence  of  the  arrival  of  the  ex-king — news 
which  spread,  moreover,  with  astounding  rapidity — 
reached  them.  They  came  without  knowing  why,  or  for 
what  object.  Some  came  to  see  their  king,  and  others 
with  undefined  hopes  of  something  in  the  future.  Once 
there,  they  remained,  and  with  the  greater  hope  and  ex- 
pectation, indeed,  as  they  perceived  their  large  numbers 
and  the  readiness  of  the  people  to  serve  the  king.  In 
the  morning,  as  Murat  after  a  protracted  sleep  which  was 
fruitful  in  pleasant  dreams,  looked  out  the  window,  he 
saw  whole  troops  of  familiar  and  friendly  uniforms.  He 
smiled,  but  his  eye  rested  with  emotion  upon  Nadir,  who 
was  sitting,  buried  in  thought,  alone  upon  the  corner- 
stone of  the  entrance  to  the  court-yard.  He  tapped 
lightly  upon  the  window,  when  Nadir  started,  looked  up 
and  obeyed  the  signal  which  beckoned  him  to  the  king. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  latter  as  the  Arabian  entered, 

(95) 


96  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"  you  see  the  men  out  there  with  their  high  titles  and 
their  rich  uniform  ?  What  they  have,  they  got  from  me ; 
with  me  they  were  happy,  they  shared  my  power,  my 
glory,  and  my  wealth.  They  are  now  fallen  like  myself, 
but  of  their  past  life,  like  their  glory,  no  one  can  rob  them. 
And  yet,  not  one  of  them  has  done  as  much  for  me  as 
yourself.  They  accompanied  me  when  I  could  repay  every 
deed  like  a  god.  You  joined  me  when  I  was  in  distress; 
you  rescued  me  from  the  hands  of  my  foes  and  from 
death,  and  exposed  yourself  to  the  most  imminent  danger 
with  no  hope  of  recompense.  I  cannot  suffer  that  you 
should  be  considered  one  of  my  servants, — what  can  I 
do  for  you?" 

Nadir  gazed  at  the  king  with  a  look  of  gratitude,  but 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  with  a  smile  of  pain, 
"Nothing!" 

"•Nothing ?  You  think  me  poor,  Nadir?"  pursued  the 
king.  "  I  am  not  so,  notwithstanding  the  act  of  treachery 
that  you  witnessed.  I  have  saved  many  jewels,  and  the 
next  few  days  will  bring  from  Paris  an  agent  with  a 
large  amount  of  wealth,  which  I  had  invested  there. 
You  know,  too,  that  three  ships  have  been  purchased  and 
equipped  for  me  at  Bastia." 

"  Thank  you,  Sire,"  replied  Nadir;  "  I  need  no  money." 
"  What  do  you  need  ?     Do  you  seek  honors  ?" 
"  Once  back  in  my  native  land,  Sire,  my  countrymen 
would  pay  me  every  honor." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  receive  a  proper  provision  which  will 
enable  you  to  return  in  a  worthy,  splendid  manner,  in 
accordance  with  your  rank,  to  your  native  country  ?  I 
will  give  you  one  of  my  ships,  I  will  lade  it  with  treasure, 
and  will  have  my  highest  officers  escort  you  in  triumph 
to  your  home." 


Negotiations.  97 

Nadir  shook  his  head.  "  I  once/'  said  he,  with  a 
quivering  voice,  "  I  once  dreamed  of  such  a  return  to 
my  home,  but  there  is  no  one  there  whom  I  love.  Is  it 
still  my  home  ?  One's  home  is  where  his  heart  is.  Be- 
sides, I  view  life  in  a  different  manner  from  that  in  which 
they  do  there.  I  should  feel  myself  a  stranger  there,  a 
stranger  in  my  native  land." 

Murat  looked  fixedly  at  him  in  surprise.  Another 
man  stood  before  him.  The  composure  and  cheerfulness 
under  the  greatest  dangers,  which  had  excited  his  admi- 
ration, were  gone  ;  and  in  their  stead,  a  deep  look  of  mel- 
ancholy rested  upon  his  features,  and  a  sadness  and  self- 
renouncing  grief,  which  he  could  not  explain,  spoke  in 
every  word  and  tone.  The  knowledge  of  hearts  and  of 
men  was  never  the  strong  point  of  that  easy  nature  of 
this  child  of  fortune,  who  permitted  himself  to  be  borne 
up  and  down  by  fate,  as  upon  a  billow,  and  who  studied 
occurrences  and  events  more  than  people.  After  a  long 
pause  he  said : 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Nadir.  What  would  you 
like  to  have  ?" 

"Nothing!"  replied  Nadir  as  before.  "  To  remain 
here  upon  this  island, — perhaps  to  die  here." 

At  this  the  king  laughed.  "You  are  in  love;  I  un- 
derstand now." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  Nadir's  shoulder  and  looked  at 
him  with  that  winning  smile  which  was  ever  wont  to  dis- 
sipate all  anxiety  and  despondency,  and  for  which  Murat 
was  remarkable ;  a  smile  which  had  gained  him  so 
many  hearts,  and  inspired  them  with  confidence  and 
hope.  Nadir,  too,  was  forced  to  smile,  and  it  seemed  to 
him,  for  a  moment  at  least,  as  if  all  his  cares  and  sor- 
rows were  taken  away.  Murat,  with  his  hand  still 


98  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

resting  upon  his  shoulder,  led  him  to  the  window  and 
said: 

"A  few  days  ago  you  saw  me  in  the  deepest  distress; 
now  see  these  multitudes  who  have  already  rallied  about 
me,  and  who  are  increasing  in  number  every  hour.  I 
need  speak  but  a  word,  issue  a  proclamation,  and  an 
army  stands  in  array,  and  I  can  make  myself  master  of 
this  beautiful  island.  I  could  not  be  again  conquered 
by  the  united  power  of  Europe,  but  should  have  added 
weeks  and  months  of  glory  to  the  years  of  my  greatest 
renown,  and  Europe  would  say,  '  The  star  of  Murat 
shines  longer  than  the  sun  of  Austerlitz.'  Thus  life,  if 
we  trust  in  it,  shines,  you  see,  with  a  luster  ever  new." 

He  paused,  for  he  observed  that  the  armed  men  before 
the  house,  as  well  as  all  Vescovato,  were  in  great  com- 
motion. The  men  who  had  lain  down  under  the  chest- 
nut-trees, sprang  up  and  seized  their  arms,  the  veterans 
among  them  formed  themselves  into  rank  and  file,  others 
ran  as  messengers  hither  and  thither,  and  the  officers 
separated  and  joined  the  single  groups  and  bands.  Murat 
leaned  his  forehead  against  the  window  pane  and  said: 
"It  looks  as  if  a  battle  might  be  near;  the  enemy  is 
certainly  approaching!" 

Franceschetti  entered  and  confirmed  the  last  remark 
of  the  king.  Horsemen  and  gensd'armes  were  seen 
approaching  from  Bastia,  followed  by  infantry. 

"I  must  go  down,"  exclaimed  Murat.  "  Franceschetti, 
my  friend,  have  me  a  horse  saddled;  a  horse!  a  horse!" 

"  No,  your  Majesty !"  said  Franceschetti,  with  a  smile. 

"Why  not?" 

"If  your  Majesty  mounts  your  horse,"  said  Frances- 
chetti, still  smiling,  but  yet  in  a  gently  dissuasive  tone, 
"  a  battle  will  ensue ;  and  that  your  Majesty  does  not 
wish." 


Negotiations.  99 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  king,  with  a  laugh.  "  Once 
in  the  saddle,  I  must  advance.  I  will  go  below  and 
speak  to  them  afoot." 

"Neither  do  I  think  that  advisable,  your  Majesty," 
said  the  general ;  "  it  is  better  not  to  afford  the  govern- 
ment and  the  men  from  Bastia  the  slightest  grounds  for 
accusation,  or  have  the  least  collision  with  the  soldiery." 

"How!"  indignantly  exclaimed  the  king;  "am  I  to 
act  as  if  these  good  people  who  have  taken  up  arms  for 
me,  were  not  in  existence?" 

"  The  people  know  how  to  judge  of  your  position,  Sire, 
and  the  least  among  them  knows  that  caution,  upon  your 
part,  is  imperative.  They  are  here  to  protect  the  rights 
of  hospitality  of  the  Colonna." 

"And  not  for  my  service?"  demanded  Murat  with  a 
frown. 

"For  your  service,  Sire,  as  soon  as  you  declare  your- 
self, as  soon  as  you  wish  it;  but  let  us  not  allow  the  gov- 
ernment of  Louis  the  Eighteenth,  and  the  allies  at  Paris, 
to  know  it  yet." 

"  You  are  always  in  the  right,  my  dear  Franceschetti. 
But  what  is  going  to  be  done  now  ?" 

"  The  troops  will  remain  upon  the  heights,  for  they 
will  not  dare  to  enter  when  they  see  the  large  number 
of  armed  Corsicans.  Their  commander,  if  he  at  all 
snows  our  country,  will  beware  of  a  bloody  assault  upon 
our  house.  He  knows  that  a  contrary  course  would 
bring  against  him  the  whole  island,  and  just  at  this  time, 
when  France  is  not  sure  of  her  troops,  and  would  fain 
make  Europe  and  the  allies  believe  that  the  Bourbons 
are  received  with  satisfaction  all  over  French  territory, 
she  cannot  wish  to  see  all  Corsica  in  insurrection.  One 
knows  of  old  what  an  insurrection  in  Corsica  means.  I 


100  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

think  that  La  Verri&re,  the  commandant,  is  advancing  in 
such  an  imposing  manner  merely  to  lend  more  emphasis 
to  his  negotiations." 

"  I  will  not,"  said  the  king,  "  close  my  ears  to  honor- 
able conditions." 

It  happened  as  Franceschetti  prophesied.  After  the 
troops  had  stood  for  hours  motionless  upon  the  heights, 
leaving  the  people  of  Vescovato  uncertain  whether  there 
would  be  an  engagement  or  not ;  after  hundreds  of  armed 
men,  part  of  whom  had  followed  the  troops  by  by-roads 
from  Bastia,  and  part  come  in  from  the  neighboring  vil- 
lages, had  poured  in,  thereby  materially  increasing  the 
number  of  the  defenders  of  Murat  and  the  house  of  the 
Colonna,  the  horsemen  rode  to  the  entrance  of  the  vil- 
lage, where  they  halted,  and  the  infantry  who  were 
posted  upon  the  heights  overlooking  Vescovato,  stacked 
their  arms.  La  Verriere,  the  commandant,  accompanied 
by  a  small  number  of  officers,  rode  into  the  village  di- 
rectly toward  the  house  of  Colonna  Ceccaldi.  He  man- 
ifested no  concern  at  the  warlike  appearance  of  Vesco- 
vato, honored  the  armed  men  neither  right  nor  left  with 
a  glance,  sprung  from  his  saddle  and  demanded  of  Ser- 
afino,  who  was  in  attendance  at  the  door,  to  see  Joachim 
Murat. 

Serafino  did  not  understand  him.  "  There  is  no  M. 
Joachim  Murat  here,"  said  he. 

The  muscles  about  La  Verriere's  mouth  became  slightly 
contracted,  and  with  a  contemptuous  gesture  of  his  left 
hand,  he  impatiently  arid  emphatically  exclaimed : 

"  His  Majesty,  then,  King  Joachim  Napoleon !" 

"  Up  stairs,  on  the  next  floor,"  replied  Serafino,  with  a 
bow. 

La  Verri&re  hastened  up  the  stairs.     The  officers  re- 


Negotiations.  '>,'',  \liOl 

mained  in  the  court-yard,  and  on  horseback;  one  alone, 
a  handsome  young  man  not  above  four  and  twenty  years 
of  age,  at  the  most,  whose  dark  complexion  and  whole 
appearance  at  once  betrayed  him  to  be  a  Corsican, 
bounded  from  his  saddle  and  hastened  into  the  large 
drawing-room,  on  the  lower  floor.  He  pressed  the  hand 
of  the  aged  Colonna  Ceccaldi,  who  was  seated  in  his 
accustomed  place,  and  then  kissed  those  of  Catherine, 
who,  as  he  entered,  started  up  in  some  dismay.  The 
young  officer  greeted  them  both,  though  respectfully, 
yet  with  much  haste,  in  order  as  soon  as  possible  to  reach 
Benvenuta,  who  was  standing  upon  a  raised  platform, 
within  the  alcove  of  the  window,  and  who  had  seen  him 
enter. 

" Benvenuta,"  he  exclaimed,  opening  his  arms,  "it 
is  so  long  since  I  have  seen  you,  dearest!" 

Benvenuta  was  silent,  and  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
repel  him. 

"  Are  you  angry  because  I  have  not  been  here  for  so 
long  a  time  ?  Pardon  me  ;  our  duties  at  Bastia  are  now 
so  onerous,  the  troops  are  untrustworthy,  and  it  seems 
as  if  a  hundred  events  were  ready  to  take  place  around 
us,  and  an  officer  should  not  leave  the  fortress  an  hour." 
•  Signor  Galvani  Serra,"  said  Benvenuta  with  a 
rown,  "  you  seem  to  be  a  conscientious  and  zealous 
ervant  of  France." 

"My  daughter!"  exclaimed  her  mother  reproach- 
fully. 

"Benvenuta,"  said  Galvani  Serra  in  surprise,  "how 
are  you  speaking  to  your  affianced  husband  ?" 

"  Your  surprise  at  my  manner  proves  to  me  that  you 
io  not  know  me,  and  that  we  are  not  designed  for  each 

10 


lvJ2  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

other.  You  are  my  affianced  husband  no  longer,  for 
you  are  the  enemy  of  my  family!" 

"An  enemy  of  your  family!"  exclaimed  Galvani 
Serra  with  a  bitter  laugh;  "you  talk  childishly,  Ben- 
venuta." 

"  An  enemy,"  she  said  with  emphasis,  "such  as  Cor- 
sica has  never  produced  before.  That  you  love  me,  and 
wish  to  marry  me,  does  not  prove  the  contrary.  You 
come  in  the  ranks  of  the  enemy,  and  as  one  of  their 
officers,  to  pursue  a  fugitive,  and  take  away  the  right  of 
exercising  hospitality,  a  right  claimed  by  the  Colonna 
family  and  by  all  Corsica.  Look,  the  very  lowest  man 
out  there  is  better  than  you.  They  are  neither  my  lovers 
nor  my  kindred,  as  you  are,  yet  they  all  armed  them- 
selves and  assembled  as  soon  as  it  was  reported  that  a 
person  had  arrived  who  was  menaced  by  danger,  and 
whose  sole  resort  was  flight  to  Corsica,  for  protection. 
You  remain  over  there  with  those  who  wish  to  make  war 
upon  us,  and  who  perhaps  will  yet  do  so,  and  if  La  Ver- 
riere  gives  the  order,  you  yourself  will  lead  the  soldiery 
against  us  and  against  that  hospitality  which  is  our 
right." 

"  I  am  in  the  service  of  France,"  stammered  Serra  in 
confusion. 

"  The  sons  of  Corsica,  in  other  days,  did  not  so  under- 
stand the  service,"  said  Benvenuta  in  a  harsh  tone,  inter- 
rupting him :  "  they  have  fought  everywhere  bravely, 
and  against  every  foe,  but  never  against  Corsica  and 
Corsican  customs.'7 

"Benvenuta  is  right !"  Colonna  here  broke  in. 

"  We  have  not  yet  fallen  so  low  as  to  be  the  slaves  of 
the  French,"  pursued  Benvenuta,  "  to  be  obliged  to  fight 
against  the  people  of  our  native  land.  This  aged  man 


Negotiations.  103 

here  has  fought  under  Pasquale  Paoli  against  Prance ; 
ought  I,  his  grandchild,  to  become  so  thoroughly  French 
as  to  marry  a  catchpoll  of  France?" 

The  young  officer  started,  and  the  Corsican  blood 
began  to  boil  in  his  veins.  "  Give  me  the  ring,  Benve- 
nuta, — give  me  the  ring,"  he  exclaimed  in  an  ejaculatory 
manner  ;  "  we  are  now  at  enmity  !" 

"Here  is  the  ring!"  said  she,  and  drew  it  from  her 
pocket. 

He  took  the  engagement  ring  and  rushed  from  the 
room  into  the  court-yard,  still  gazing  at  the  golden  cir- 
clet as  though  it  had  been  something  hideous. 

"  What  have  you  in  your  hand  there,  at  which  you  are 
gazing  with  such  a  horrid  look?  A  ring?  What  is 
there  so  terrible  in  that?" 

"With  this  ring,"  exclaimed  Serra  with  a  laugh,  "I 
betroth  myself  to  France  forever,  let  her  make  me  a 
spy,  a  catchpoll,  or  whatever  she  will,  so  that  I  may  but 
take  revenge  upon  this  island  and  its  frenzy!" 

"A  ring  ?"  asked  Carabelli,  who  had  entered  into  con- 
versation with  the  officers ;  "  I  can  imagine  where  it 
comes  from." 

Serra,  in  his  agitation,  ran  out  upon  the  square.  "  I 
must  quiet  him,"  said  Carabelli,  and  followed  him. 
"  Signer  Galvani  Serra,"  said  he  in  a  low  tone,  "just  as 
you  entered  the  house,  I  learned  that  you  were  the  affi- 
anced husband  of  the  daughter  of  Franceschetti." 

"Who  are  you?" 

Carabelli  made  no  reply,  and  pursued :  "  A  servant 
informed  me  of  the  fact,  and  now  I  see  you  hasten  from 
the  house  in  agitation,  and  with  a  ring  in  your  hand. 
Madamigella  Benvenuta  has  broken  with  you,  and  would 
you  like  to  know  why?" 


104  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"Who  are  you?"  repeated  the  officer. 

"  A  faithful  servant  of  his  Majesty,  Louis  the  Eigh- 
teenth," said  Carabelli  in  a  low  tone;  "  one  must  not 
say  such  a  thing  aloud  here,  although  the  old  Colonna 
conducts  himself  like  a  Bourbonist.  It  may  go  ill  with 
all  of  us  who  acknowledge  Louis  the  Eighteenth ;  just 
look  at  these  fellows  in  arms,  and  for  two  hours  past  one 
bandit  after  another  has  been  coming  in,  and  many 
others  will  follow;  all  the  Macchias  are  aroused.  But 
I  must  remain ;  loyalty  and  duty  keep  me  here." 

"No  more  until  you  tell  me  your  name!"  exclaimed 
Serra  in  an  imperious  tone. 

"Very  well,  then,  although  my  name  is  not  to  the 
point, — it  is  Ignatius  Carabelli." 

"Carabelli?  A  traitor — bad  blood!"  exclaimed  the 
other,  with  manifest  aversion. 

"A  traitor?  I  have,  it  is  true,  much  to  expose 
to  you  which  will  open  your  eyes,  and  whether  bad 
blood  runs,  in  my  veins  or  not,  will  be  seen  by  the  ser- 
vice I  render  the  King  of  France  and  Ferdinand  of 
Sicily.  What  more  can  be  demanded  than  faithful  and 
useful  services  ?  Now,  however,  I  am  in  a  position  to 
render  a  very  important  one  to  yourself  and  to  every 
potentate  of  Europe,  and  there  shall  yet  be  Corsicans 
who,  after  Napoleon's  overthrow,  stand  up  by  the  side  of 
Pozzo  di  Borgo.  Pozzo  di  Borgo  opposed  this  Bonaparte 
all  his  life,  and  now  he  alone,  of  all  the  Corsicans, 
stands  upright.  But  you  are  not  listening  to  me ;  you 
are  utterly  indifferent  to  all  these  things  now — you  are 
thinking  of  your  dismissal." 

"Silence!"  exclaimed  Galvani  Serra. 

"  No,  I  must  show  you  the  matter  in  its  true  light. 
I  am  indeed  a  traitor ;  I  can  betray  Signorina  Benve- 


Negotiations.  105 

nuta  and  the  reason  that  has  led  her  to  give  a  brave, 
handsome,  young  officer  his  dismissal." 

Serra  grew  more  attentive,  and  Carabelli  continued : 
"  She  was  away  from  home  the  whole  night,  in  company 
with  an  Arabian,  who  came  with  the  ex-king ;  I  saw 
them  as  they  returned  home  toward  morning.  Ah,  what 
ardent  looks  he  cast  on  her! — hush,  do  not  fly  into  a 
passion — come  a  little  farther  away  from  the  house,  so 
that  no  one  will  see  us.  I  have  a  great  deal  more  to  tell 
you ;  the  ex-king,  too,  has  made  a  great  impression  upon 
her.  You  should  only  hear  her  speak  of  him.  Do  you 
know  that  it  was  Benvenuta  who  called  the  village  to 
arms,  and  that  this  same  little  Signorina  brought  the 
banditti  from  the  Macchia!  Yes,  it  is  a  fact;  I  had 
it  directly  from  the  first  bandit  who  came  in  this  morn- 
ing. Oh,  she  is  a  fine  creature,  this  Benvenuta  Bene- 
detta,  and  your  loss  is  a  great  one  !" 

Galvani  Serra  stood  gloomily  before  the  speaker,  as  if 
devoid  of  consciousness.  The  words  sounded  in  his  ears, 
but  he  was  forced  to  make  an  effort  in  order  to  take  in 
their  meaning  after  they  were  uttered,  and  to  compre- 
hend their  import. 

Carabelli  roused  him  :  "  Try  to  collect  your  thoughts, 
for  I  have  something  of  greater  importance  to  tell  you. 
It  would  be  best  communicated  to  La  Verriere,  but  if  I 
attempted  to  speak  with  him,  it  would  excite  suspicion, 
and  I  cannot  leave  for  Bastia  under  three  or  four  days. 
You  must  tell  him  that  I  confided  it  to  you,  for  his  in- 
formation. Murat's  money,  which  he  invested  in  Paris, 
is  to  arrive  upon  the  island  to-day;  I  know  this  to  be  a 
fact,  for  he  himself  told  me  so,  when  referring  to  the  re- 
compense awaiting  my  fidelity.  A  part  of  the  money  is 

10* 


106  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

to  be  expended  in  the  purchase  of  the  three  ships  which 
are  being  equipped  for  him  at  Bastia  ;  let  them  get  ready 
to  put  to  sea,  and  then  seize  them,  for  everything  he 
has,  all  his  papers,  and  his  correspondence  carried  on  at 
Toulon  with  the  Carbonari  at  Naples,  will  be  in  them. 
It  is  very  important,  in  the  first  place,  that  he  should 
have  no  money,  and  then,  that  he  should  have  no  ships. 
Three  vessels  will  place  him  in  a  position  to  render  the 
whole  Mediterranean  insecure,  but  these  lost,  he  is  a 
prisoner  in  our  hands,  and  all  his  treasure  with  him. 
France  will  be  sure  and  manage  these  hospitable  Corsi- 
cans  and  banditti.  And  is  not  the  English  fleet  near 
by  at  Livorno,  Genoa,  and  Toulon  ?  They  are  vexed 
enough  that  he  has  escaped  them.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"You  are  the  prince  of  traitors !"  said  Serra  ab- 
stractedly. 

"  Traitors  !  Heaven  forbid  !  I  seek  revenge  upon 
those  Corsicans  who  say  that  bad  blood  runs  in  the  veins 
of  the  Carabelli!  And  you,  too,  shall  have  revenge!" 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  Serra,  "revenge,  for  it  is  through 
his  fault  that  I  have  lost  her,  and  he  is  one  of  the  family 
of  the  woman  who  has  offered  me  a  mortal  insult.  And 
the  old  fo'ol  there,  Colonna,  approved  of  the  mad  con- 
duct of  his  grandchild.  I  shall  shout  for  joy  when  I  see 
your  house  in  flames  and  all  your  guests  ruined !" 

With  a  gesture  of  menace  he  looked  toward  the 
house.  La  Verri&re  at  that  moment  came  out,  and 
gloomily  and  silently  mounted  his  horse.  Serra  hast- 
ened away  without  honoring  Carabelli  with  a  parting 
look,  bounded  haughtily  into  his  saddle,  turned  away 
from  the  house,  and  galloped  off  with  the  rest. 

La  Verri&re  and  his  officers  had  hardly  reached  the 


Negotiations.  107 

troops,  when  a  shout  was  raised  which  was  heard  in 
Vescovato — a  shout  which  did  not  seem  like  a  battle 
cry  or  cries  of  menace,  but  rather  like  one  of  exulta- 
tion. The  greater  part  of  these  troops  were  Napoleon's 
veterans,  who  were  evidently  rejoicing  that  they  had  not 
been  called  upon  to  turn  their  arms  against  Murat  and 
his  friends,  or,  had  such  been  the  case,  that  they  had 
not  been  forced  to  offer  resistance  to  their  present  com- 
mander. They  seized  their  arms,  put  themselves  in  brisk 
motion,  and  were  soon  out  of  sight  behind  the  hills,  on 
their  way  to  Bastia,  while  their  shouts  were  echoed  back 
from  Vescovato. 

La  Verriere  had  every  reason  to  return  to  Bastia  in 
the  highest  degree  dissatisfied.  Firmly  resolved  to  force 
Murat  to  leave  the  island,  or  else  to  take  him  prisoner, 
and  thus  fulfill  the  fondest  wish  of  Fouehe'  and  Louis  the 
Eighteenth,  by  giving  him  into  their  hands,  he  came  to 
Vescovato  only  to  become  speedily  convinced  that,  com- 
manding untrustworthy  troops,  he  was  unable  to  cope 
with  the  united  defenders  of  the  ex-king,  and  that  he 
must  treat  with  the  latter  upon  equal  terms,  content  if 
he  could  induce  him  to  leave  the  island,  and  thus  pre- 
vent any  further  commotion.  Fully  determined,  of  course, 
as  a  legitimist  and  representative  of  his  rightful  king,  to 
treat  Murat  as  a  private  person  only,  he  found  himself 
obliged,  while  in  his  presence,  to  undergo,  in  a  still 
higher  degree,  the  same  experience,  and  make  the  same 
concession,  only  in  a  more  dignified  manner,  to  which  he 
had  been  forced  by  Serafino,  at  the  door  below.  An  old 
emigrant,  who  had  served  from  his  youth  as  an  officer  of 
the  suite  of  the  undignified  Count  of  Provence,  his  present 
sovereign,  he  had  been  driven  about  without  ever  catch- 
ing a  glimpse  of  the  parvenus  who,  since  the  beginning  of 


108  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  century,  had  ruled  half  of  Europe  as  kings  and  em- 
perors, and  he  was  the  more  surprised,  while  all  his  con- 
ceptions and  ideas  became  confused  as  he  suddenly  stood 
before  this  son  of  the  Cahors  innkeeper,  and  witnessed 
in  him  a  dignity  and  majesty  such  as  La  Verriere  had 
never  seen  in  any  legitimate  sovereign,  and,  indeed,  such 
as  no  monarch  of  that  time  knew  how  to  exhibit  like 
Murat.  Upon  the  battle-field,  a  knightly  horseman  who 
drove  whole  squadrons  hither  and  thither,  and  rode  down 
the  most  powerful  carres;  among  his  friends,  a  familiar 
companion  and  genuine  French  "  bon  enfant,"  making 
no  pretensions  to  superiority;  in  his  family,  childlike 
and  affectionate;  he  was,  the  moment  he  was  called  upon 
to  assume  a  lordly  dignity,  wholly  a  king,  and  such  a 
one  as  a  superstitious  loyalty  would  have  imagined  in 
a  sovereign,  "  by  the  Grace  of  God,"  the  descendant  of 
a  hundred  royal  ancestors.  M.  de  la  Verriere  did  what  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  would  have  considered  im- 
possible :  he  bowed  in  profound  reverence  to  the  man 
who,  perhaps,  in  his  youth,  had  waited  at  table  upon  his 
father's  guests,  and  committed  treason  against  his  legiti- 
mist convictions  which  he  had  imbibed  with  his  mother's 
milk,  by  addressing  this  man  as  u  Your  Majesty."  He 
had  come,  too,  to  command,  whereas  he  merely  offered 
propositions,  arid  heard  the  pleasure  of  the  ex-king,  as 
he  remained  standing  in  his  presence.  Murat  merely 
designed  to  await,  here  in  Corsica,  the  termination  of 
his  negotiations  with  Austria  and  England,  and  what- 
ever those  powers  might  send  him.  He  was  not  at  war 
with  Louis  the  Eighteenth,  and  he  therefore  could  have 
no  desire  to  incite  here  any  insurrection  or  revolt  against 
France.  While  upon  the  territory  of  France,  where  he 
had  lived  as  a  private  person,  and  where  he  had  hoped 


Negotiations.  109 

to  find  an  asylum,  the  servants  of  his  Majesty,  Louis  the 
Eighteenth,  had  conducted  themselves  toward  him  in  an 
unworthy  manner,  and  obliged  him  to  seek  the  protec- 
tion of  the  hospitable  people  of  Corsica.  Here  he  in- 
tended to  wait  until,  having  learned  the  result  of  his 
negotiations  with  Castlereagh  and  Metternich,  he  should 
lay  further  plans.  He  sought  nothing  but  peace  with 
Louis  the  Eighteenth,  against  whom  he  had  never  been 
engaged  in  conflict,  and  it  would  certainly  not  be  his 
fault  if  this  peace  were  interrupted. 

With  this  answer,  M.  de  la  Verriere  was  forced  to  be 
contented,  and  was  obliged,  although  he  had  many  ob- 
jections to  offer,  to  bow  and  take  his  leave,  as  Murat 
with  a  gracious  smile  dismissed  him. 

The  next  morning  it  was  reported  in  Vescovato  that 
La  Verriere  was  vigorously  engaged  in  placing  Bastia  in 
a  position  of  defense. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    KING   WEEPS. 

MANY  and  great  were  the  changes  which  took  place 
in  Vescovato  also,  during  this  and  the  following  day. 
If  Bastia  assumed  a  warlike  aspect,  Vescovato,  too, 
looked  more  and  more  like  a  military  camp,  and  a  com- 
parison between  the  two  places  would  have  shown  the 
village  to  be  stronger  than  the  town.  Bastia  looked  like 
a  stronghold,  with  its  works  of  defense,  while  Vescovato 
seemed  the  army  which  had  only  to  make  a  short  march 
to  reduce  the  stronghold  to  extremity.  The  fortress,  be- 
sides, was  garrisoned  by  untrustworthy  soldiers,  and  the 
town  by  inhabitants  who  were  favorably  disposed  toward 
the  enemy,  while  the  greater  part,  at  least,  of  Vesco- 
vato were  unanimous  in  thought  and  feeling.  The  Ca- 
puchin convent  became  a  complete  citadel,  and  was  filled 
with  veterans.  Three  days  had  sufficed  to  rouse  the  en- 
tire island,  and  bring  together  a  numerous  body  of  men, 
and  among  them  the  banditti  from  the  distant  Macchias. 
They  came  in  by  troops,  men  often  coming  side  by  side 
who  were  seeking  each  other's  blood,  but  who,  by  means 
of  parolanti,  had  secured  a  reconciliation  for  the  time 
being,  or  forever,  as  has  frequently  happened  in  Corsica, 
during  times  of  danger;  for  although  the  Vendetta  is 
inscribed  upon  the  heart  of  the  Corsican,  his  passions, 
which  are  readily  excited  either  to  good  or  evil,  are 
easily  moved  by  noble  motives  to  a  reconciliation.  It 
(110) 


The  King  Weeps.  Ill 

has  often  happened  that  two  enemies,  at  the  moment  of 
combat,  have  fallen  into  each  other's  arms,  or  that  one 
of  these  avengers  of  blood,  moved  by  the  defenseless- 
ness  of  his  victim,  whom  he  has  found  asleep,  has  burst 
into  tears.  The  houses  in  Vescovato  were  insufficient  to 
lodge  all  the  strangers,  and  it  was  necessary  to  bring 
provisions  from  distant  villages,  and  from  the  market  at 
Bastia.  Signora  Catherine  Franceschetti  emptied  her 
well-filled  granary  and  store-rooms,  and  every  day  sent 
servants  in  every  direction  to  purchase  fresh  provisions. 
The  aged  Colonna  Ceccaldi  sold,  at  the  time,  a  house 
which  he  owned  in  Bastia,  in  order  to  obtain  cash,  which 
was  so  rare  in  Corsica,  to  procure  sustenance  for  his  one 
distinguished  guest,  and  for  the  rest  of  those  who,  in  such 
numbers,  claimed  his  hospitality. 

Benvenuta  had  done  what  the  arrival  of  the  king  had 
prompted  her  to  do,  she  had  called  out  armed  men  from 
the  village  and  from  the  Maccliias,  and  she  had  severed 
a  tie  that  was  hateful  to  her.  She  now  returned  again 
into  the  home  circle,  permitted  herself  to  be  but  seldom 
seen  by  the  men,  as  is  the  custom  among  the  women  of 
Corsica,  and  aided  her  mother  in  the  ordering  of  court, 
kitchen,  and  cellar,  where  there  was  so  much  to  be  per- 
formed. Nadir  lay  in  the  garden  beneath  the  shade  of 
the  plane-trees,  from  which  place  he  could  often  see  her  in 
the  back  garden — and  dreamed.  Upon  the  threshold 
of  the  house  sat  old  Mattea,  in  her  Sunday  attire,  a 
blue  kerchief  upon  her  head  and  wrapped  about  her  tuft 
of  hair,  and  a  white,  full  garment  around  her  long  limbs. 
She  was  looking  out  upon  the  square  where  her  son 
Matteo  was  lying,  among  the  other  armed  men ;  his  rifle 
was  resting  against  a  chestnut-tree  at  some  distance  from 
him,  and  he  was  playing  upon  a  violin.  To  her,  this 


112  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

warlike  camp  was  a  picture  of  happiness  and  peace,  for 
Matteo  had  effected  a  reconciliation  with  his  enemy. 
There  were  no  spies  there  to  be  feared,  and  after  years 
of  wandering  in  the  wilderness,  he  was  again  living 
among  men,  without  any  need  for  either  of  them  to  fear 
that  a  ball  might  at  any  moment  lay  him  low.  He  was 
once  more  playing  the  violin,  as  he  had  done  in  child- 
hood; and  as  she  listened  to  the  notes,  they  seemed  like 
a  prophecy  of  happiness.  With  what  pleasure  did  she 
see  his  rifle  at  a  distance  from  him;  the  weapon  which 
for  years,  waking  or  sleeping,  had  not  quit  his  side ! 
When  Benvenuta  would  pass  by  her,  across  the  thresh- 
old, or  show  herself  back .  in  the  court-yard,  she  would 
exclaim  with  lifted  hands,  "  God  bless  you,  as  you  go  out 
and  as  you  come  in,  Maria  Benvenuta  !  child  without  an 
equal;  for  to  you  I  owe  these  days  of  tranquillity,  and 
a  happiness  such  as  these  old  eyes  never  hoped  to  see 
more."  Or,  "  Maria  Benvenuta,  blessed  child,  you  have 
taken  from  me  all  the  grief,  from  the  depths  of  which  I 
chanted  my  vocero  over  that  dead  man ;  and  the  milk 
which  you  drew  from  my  breast  you  have  repaid  by  giv- 
ing me  a  life  of  peace.  May  your  guardian  angel  watch 
over  you  forever  and  ever." 

The  king,  following  Francescheiti's  advice,  or  if  for- 
getful of  it,  reminded  of  it  anew  and  restrained  by  his 
host,  remained  in  his  apartments,  to  guard  against  af- 
fording France  any  grounds  for  reproach,  and  to  avoid 
exciting  the  easily  inflamed  natures  of  the  Corsicans,  and 
to  prevent  any  demonstration  which  might  endanger  the 
conservative  position  which  he  had  assumed,  or  prove  an 
injury  to  the  people  of  Corsica.  He  transacted  business 
with  his  agents,  who  were  constantly  arriving  from  the 
continent,  and  again  dispatched  them  with  new  commis- 


The  King  Weeps.  113 

sions,  hither  and  thither,  for  the  most  part  to  Bastia, 
where  they  were  to  pay  for  the  ships  which  had  been 
purchased,  and  to  hasten  their  equipment,  in  order  that 
upon  the  receipt  of  favorable  intelligence  from  Castle- 
reagh  and  Metternich,  they  might  be  ready  to  sail,  and 
no  longer  disquiet  the  island  which  had  received  him 
with  so  much  hospitality,  nor  longer  be  burdensome  to 
the  noble  family  who  were  his  hosts.  When  business 
with  his  agents  was  finished,  and  the  necessary  letters 
were  written,  he  sat  quietly  down  to  his  "  Filippini,"  those 
annals  which  so  abound  with  the  wonderful  and  heroic 
deeds  of  this  remarkable  island.  How  could  the  house 
of  Colonna  Ceccaldi  be  without  that  book,  when  so  many 
of  its  pages  speak  of  the  deeds  of  the  Colonna  ?  Nor 
was  it  missing  in  any  house  of  Vescovato,  for  Filippini 
was  a  native  of  that  village,  and  Corsican  history  seems 
to  always  have  chosen  that  place  for  its  favorite  spot,  and 
it  is  consequently  alluded  to  on  almost  every  page  of  that 
old  chronicle. 

"What  a  wonderful  book  !  what  an  encouraging  one!" 
once  exclaimed  Murat,  as  Franceschetti  entered  the 
room.  "  I  read  here  of  outlawed  heroes  who,  miserably 
equipped  and  with  few  or  no  friends,  often  landed  upon 
the  coast ;  and  how  multitudes  immediately  rallied  around 
them,  and  how  in  a  few  days  they  freed  their  native 
land." 

"Yes,"  said  Franceschetti,  proudly,  "the  annals  of 
Corsica  recount  such  narratives  upon  every  page;  and 
this  Filippini  was  not  a  thoroughly  loyal  son  of  his  native 
country.  He  sided,  it  may  have  been  from  fear,  with 
Genoa.  Truth,  however,  forced  him  to  narrate  these 
accounts.  But,"  added  the  general  with  a  smile,  "there 
is  only  one  Corsica." 

11 


114  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  the  king,  hastily  interrupt- 
ing him,  "my  Calabrians  have  all  the  virtues  and  quali- 
ties of  the  Corsicans.  They  are  proud,  and,  like  the 
Corsicans,  revenge  every  insult  offered  them ;  they  love 
their  country  and  liberty,  and  they  are  grateful  for  kind- 
nesses which  have  been  shown  them.  Were  one  who 
loves  his  native  country,  to  land  on  her  coasts,  proclaim 
liberty,  and  declare  her  hated  tyrants  outlawed — cer- 
tainly, Franceschetti " 

He  did  not  finish,  but  threw  his  brown  locks  back 
from  his  forehead  and  strode  up  and  down  the  apartment. 

Franceschetti  remained  quietly  in  his  place,  gazing 
sadly  at  the  excited  man,  and  debating  with  himself 
whether  he  should  offer  any  reply  or  not,  and  finally 
said: 

"  The  first  question  is  whether  a  landing  could  be  ef- 
fected. English  ships  are  cruising  from  Livorno  to 
Sicily." 

"Ah,  the  English  ships!"  contemptuously  exclaimed 
Marat;  "did  not  Napoleon  and  I  sail  from  Egypt  to 
France  directly  through  the  English  fleet?  Did  not  I 
take  Capri  from  the  English,  in  spite  of  their  fleet  and 
before  its  very  eyes  ?  Did  not  the  emperor  escape  from 
Elba  through  the  midst  of  English  ships?" 

"And  then  in  Calabria  even,"  slowly  pursued  Frances- 
chetti, "who  will  engage  that  on  landing,  he  may  not  be 
met  by  the  soldiers  of  Ferdinand,  instead  of  the  Cala- 
brians?" 

"  The  soldiers  of  Ferdinand  !"  laughed  Murat ;  "when 
and  where  have  not  the  soldiers  of  the  Sicilian  Bourbons 
been  beaten  ?  Tell  me  that,  Franceschetti,  if  you  can. 
And  who  says  that  they  are  soldiers  of  Ferdinand? 
Perhaps  they  are  mine;  the  very  soldiers  whom  I  have 


The  King  Weeps.  115 

taught  to  conquer  upon  so  many  battle-fields.  How  must 
they  feel  under  that  Ferdinand !" 

He  again  laughed.  "  As  for  the  Bourbons  of  Naples," 
he  pursued  gravely,  "  I  should  care  less  for  them  were  it 
not  for  all  Europe,  or  rather  for  the  allies,  whose  sole 
thought  and  feeling  now  is  their  fanaticism  for  legitimate 
succession,  and  who  would  turn  against  me  and  deluge 
my  fair  kingdom  with  blood.'' 

"That  is  so;  that  certainly  would  be  the  case!"  as- 
sented Franceschetti,  breathing  again. 

"  Let  us  not  speak  further  on  the  subject,  my  friend," 
said  Murat,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow;  "  thoughts, 
possibilities,  and  dreams  like  these,  often  pass  strangely 
through  my  head.  One  who  has  accomplished  so  much, 
has  a  right,  when  fortune  is  against  him,  to  at  least 
dream.  We  will  await,  even  while  I  keep  on  dreaming, 
the  answer  which  I  shall  receive  from  Austria  and  Eng- 
land. It  is  to  be  regretted  that  I  have  not  entered  into 
communication  with  the  Emperor  Alexander ;  he  is  the 
best  of  them  all,  and  knows,  too,  how  to  regard  legiti- 
macy. It  is  certainly  a  question,  whether  he  could  ever 
forget  the  battle  of  Borodino." 

This  word  evidently  completely  restored  his  serenity. 
"To-morrow,  or  the  day  after,"  said  he,  "  Maceroni 
must  be  here,  and  then  everything  will  be  decided,  and 
all  will  be  well.  He  is  of  Italian  descent,  but  an  Eng- 
lishman by  birth.  He  is  devoted  to  Italy  and  to  me, 
and  has  the  confidence  of  the  English;  so  that  he  seems 
to  have  come  into  the  world  to  act  as  mediator  between 
Great  Britain  and  myself,  and  I  feel  convinced  that  he 
has  secured  me  most  favorable  conditions." 

Nadir  now  entered  and  announced  that  Carabelli  had 
disappeared.  He  had  not  been  seen  since  morning.  The 


116  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

whole  village  was  in  commotion,  and  every  one  was  pos- 
itive that  he  was  plotting  some  act  of  treachery.  He, 
Nadir,  had  been  directed  to  inform  the  king. 

"No  doubt,"  said  Franceschetti,  "if  Carabelli  has 
disappeared  without  taking  leave,  treason  must  be  in 
progress." 

"  I  know,"  said  Murat,  smiling,  "  there  are  prejudices 
against  Carabelli,  on  account  of  some  old  stories  that  are 
told  about  his  family.  A  member  of  his  house  once  led 
Clemens  Paoli  into  an  ambuscade,  in  order  to  give  him 
into  the  hands  of  the  Genoese;  and  since  then  bad  blood 
has  been  attributed  to  the  Carabelli,  by  the  Corsicans. 
I  am  aware  of  it;  Carabelli  has  told  me  himself.  But 
that  is  punishing  the  children  for  the  sins  of  their  fore- 
fathers, and  by  treating  them  with  contempt,  they  may 
perhaps  be  driven  to  show  'bad  blood,'  when  they  are 
the  most  disposed  to  wash  away  the  stain  from  their 
family,  by  their  own  fidelity." 

"  He  has,  however,  disappeared  most  unaccountably," 
said  Nadir,  "  and  that  he  is  a  sneaking  fellow  and  eaves- 
dropper, I  have  experienced  myself." 

"  But,  good  heavens !"  exclaimed  Murat,  "  what  should 
he  betray?  What  is  there  to  betray?  What  my  designs 
and  private  negotiations  are,  M.  de  la  Verriere  knows 
from  my  own  mouth  better  than  any  person  upon  the 
island,  with  the  exception  of  Franceschetti.  No,  my 
friends,  I  do  not  believe  that  Carabelli  has  been  guilty 
of  treachery.  I  have  loaded  him  and  his  brother  with 
benefits,  and  they  are  Corsicans.  When  I  cast  a  glance 
out  the  window,  can  I  permit  the  thought  to  enter  my 
mind  that  treachery  can  flourish  in  Corsica?" 

And  so  saying  he  stepped  to  the  window  and  looked 
at  the  camp. 


The  King  Weeps.  117 

"I  am  forced  to  the  belief,"  lie  exclaimed,  "that  I 
am  under  tne  protection  of  a  higher  power,,  I  see  miracles 
performed  for  my  sake,  before  my  very  eyes.  Through 
whose  efforts  has  it  been  that  immediately  upon  my  ar- 
rival, when  I  had  hardly  presented  myself  to  Frances- 
chetti,  the  whole  village  rose  in  arms  in  my  defense, 
and  finally  that  all  the  people  from  the  surrounding 
country  came  in,  and  above  all,  the  outlaws  from  the 
distant  Macchias  ?  Within  a  few  days  the  appearance  of 
Vescovato  has  completely  altered ;  enemies  have,  for  my 
sake,  become  reconciled,  the  woods  are  all  deserted,  and 
an  army  of  warriors  stands  ready  at  my  command.  Why 
do  you  smile,  Nadir?" 

Nadir  was  indeed  smiling,  and  with  an  air  of  happy 
mystery. 

"  Because  I  know  the  secret  of  the  miracle." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  it  ?    Tell  me !" 

"I  may  betray  the  secret  in  the  presence  of  the  gen- 
eral, for  to  him,  I  know,  it  has  been  confessed  long  since." 

Franceschetti  smiled,  and  Nadir  continued:  "Had 
your  Majesty  paid  more  regard  to  a  certain  pair  of  eyes 
in  this  house,  your  Majesty  would  know  whose  eyes  they 
are,  which  are  watching  here  like  those  of  a  compassion- 
ate and  guardian  angel." 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  with  such  devotion,  Nadir?" 

"  Of  Maria  Benvenuta,  the  general's  daughter;  a 
maiden  of  a  sublimity  of  character  that  is  divine." 

"Well, — and  she?"  asked  the  king. 

"She,"  proudly  pursued  Nadir,  "she  it  was  who 
called  out  the  men  of  Vescovato,  and  induced  them  to 
dispatch  couriers  into  the  surrounding  country.  It  was 
she  who  went  by  night  to  the  banditti  in  the  Macchias ; 

she " 

11* 


118  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"Let  me  see  your  child,"  exclaimed  the  king,  turning 
to  Franceschetti,  "  that  I  may  thank  her." 

The  general  left  the  room  arid  soon  returned  with  Ben- 
venuta.  She  came  in  trembling,  and  remained  standing 
a  few  steps  from  the  door.  Murat  approached  her,  drew 
her  gently  inside  the  apartment,  and  seated  her  beside 
him.  He  meant  to  thank  her  for  the  deed  she  had  done  in 
his  behalf.  The  sight  of  her,  however,  evidently  moved 
him,  and  drove  it  from  his  mind.  He  looked  on  her  a 
long  time,  and  then  pressing  her  head  to  his  bosom,  he 
said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes:  "  Happy  the  man  who  can 
press  his  children  thus  to  his  breast.  Where  are  mine 
at  this  moment  ?  Where  are  they  wandering  ?  Upon 
the  raging  sea,  or  in  a  foreign  land  where  they  will  be 
treated  as  captives  ?  Ah,  perhaps  I  may  never  see  them 
more — never !" 

Tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks  and  fell  in  scalding 
torrents  upon  Benvenuta's  head.  Beneath  these  tears 
her  whole  soul  longed  to  be  a  man  that  she  might  shed 
her  last  drop  of  blood  in  restoring  the  unfortunate  king 
to  his  former  prosperity.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  gave 
the  weeping  man  a  glance  which  made  Nadir's  very  heart 
tremble,  and  he  turned  away  that  he  might  not  be  forced 
to  witness  longer  that  look  of  deep  emotion. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MATTEA. 

MACERONI,  Murat's  long-expected  commissioner,  had 
arrived,  bringing  with  him  no  stipulations  whatever,  upon 
the  part  of  England,  and  such  ones  from  Austria,  as,  if 
Murat  had  accepted  them,  would  have  consigned  him  to 
little  better  than  Austrian  captivity.  Prince  Metternich 
now  oifered  much  harder  conditions  than  he  had  done  a 
fortnight  previously,  for  Gaeta,  which  had  held  out  for 
a  long  time  after  Murat's  flight  from  his  kingdom,  had 
during  that  time  fallen  into  the  possession  of  Austria, 
and  Queen  Caroline  found  herself  and  children  upon 
Austrian  territory.  They  might  be  treated  as  hostages 
under  the  supposition  that  Murat  would  accept  any  prop- 
osition, simply  for  the  sake  of  joining  his  family.  The 
idea  did  not  occur  that  there  was  nothing  harder  or 
more  terrible  upon  earth  for  Murat,  than  the  thought  of 
living  a  fugitive,  shorn  of  power  and  pomp,  upon  the 
favor  of  an  enemy.  Wellington  and  Castlereagh,  in 
their  negotiations  with  Maceroni,  had  held  up  the  pros- 
pect of  conditions  that  were  in  the  highest  degree  favor- 
able to  Murat,  as  long  as  he  continued  in  possession  of 
Gaeta,  and  England  had  the  hope  of  obtaining  from  him, 
as  the  price  of  her  magnanimity,  that  fortress,  a  kind  of 
Italian  Gibraltar,  of  which  he,  as  its  recognized  sover- 
eign, had  a  right  to  dispose.  After  the  fall  of  Gaeta, 
the  negotiations  were  broken  off,  and  Maceroni  turned  to 

(119) 


120  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

Metternich.  The  whole  affair  was  confided  to  the  subal- 
terns who  surrounded  Metternich,  without  giving  them 
any  definite  or  express  powers.  Shortly  after  Mace- 
roni's  arrival  at  Vescovato,  or,  as  we  should  now  say,  at 
the  camp  and  headquarters  of  Murat,  there  came  an 
English  officer  from  Genoa,  who  represented  himself  as 
the  adjutant  of  the  commander  of  the  British  force  in 
the  Mediterranean,  and  invited  Murat  to  simply  sur- 
render himself  to  his  commanding  officer;  and  two  days 
after  a  second  English  officer  was  announced,  who  came 
from  Livorno  with  a  similar  demand,  in  the  name  of 
Lord  Burgersh,  English  minister  at  the  court  of  Tus- 
cany. Notwithstanding  the  utter  disregard  that  this 
conduct  indicated,  and  the  informality,  and  even  brutal- 
ity which  it  exhibited  toward  one  whom  every  sovereign 
in  Europe  had  acknowledged  as  their  equal,  and  from 
whom  the  English,  but  a  short  time  before,  had  striven 
to  purchase  a  powerful  fortress,  Murat  received  their 
advances  without  betraying  any  annoyance,  and  blandly 
represented  to  them  that  the  rank  of  the  British  offi- 
cials conveying  the  order,  was  not  sufficiently  high  to 
afford  him  the  necessary  guarantees,  and  that  a  sovereign, 
even  though  unfortunate  and  powerless,  could  not  sur- 
render himself  blindly. 

These  English  officers  had  come  to  Corsica  in  large 
men-of-war,  accompanied  by  smaller  ones.  Meeting  with 
a  repulse  from  the  king,  they  did  not  return  to  the  ports 
from  which  they  had  sailed,  but  remained  with  their  flo- 
tilla, and  occupied  Bastia  and  Ajaccio. 

While  the  three  most  important  seaports  of  Corsica 
were  thus  occupied  by  the  English,  the  garrison  of  Bas- 
tia, from  time  to  time,  made  threatening  advances  upon 
Vescovato.  They  every  time,  it  is  true,  retreated  with- 


Mattea.  121 

out  making  any  warlike  demonstration;  but  Murat  and 
his  friends  were  constantly  reminded  that  the  enemy 
was  awaiting  a  favorable  opportunity  to  put  an  end,  by 
a  single  blow,  to  the  state  of  things  induced  by  the 
presence  of  the'  fugitive  king. 

Murat  saw  that  he  must  come  to  some  determination, 
if  it  were  only  to  leave  the  island,  without  even  knowing 
whither  next  to  turn  his  steps.  Then  came  the  disas- 
trous intelligence  from  Bastia  that  his  ships,  which  had 
just  been  equipped  and  paid  for,  had  been  confiscated  by 
the  government.  The  purchase  had  been  made  privately, 
in  the  name  of  a  merchant,  its  equipment  was  nominally 
for  a  cruise  to  ports  of  the  Levant, — treachery  must  be 
at  work. 

It  was  this  which  affected  Murat  most  deeply,  for  he 
who,  during  the  closing  days  of  his  reign  in  Naples,  had 
witnessed  so  much  treachery,  was  not  so  constituted  as 
to  be  able,  with  all  his  experience,  to  believe  in  it,  at 
least  since  he,  at  the  farm  of  Pascal  Morin,  afterward 
upon  the  open  sea,  and  now  in  Corsica,  had  received  so 
many  proofs  of  fidelity  and  devotion.  Never,  not  even 
at  the  moment  when  the  treacherous  ship  was  sweeping 
past  him  on  the  broad  waters,  and  he  found  himself  with 
one  single  follower  in  a  leaky,  tempest-tossed  skiff,  be- 
tween the  panoply  of  heaven  and  the  abyss  below,  did 
he  feel  so  helpless  as  when  intelligence  of  the  con- 
fiscation of  his  ships  arrived  in  Vescovato.  Had  not 
Corsica,  his  asylum,  proved  a  snare  ?  He  gazed  speech- 
lessly at  Franceschetti  and  Nadir,  who  had  brought  him 
the  news,  and  then  threw  himself  in  a  chair  and  dropped 
his  head  upon  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"Now,"  he  said,  after  awhile,  without  raising  his 
head,  "  now  I  am  a  beggar !" 


122  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

He  had  not  long  sat  thus,  when  a  singular  procession 
moved  in  at  the  door.  The  aged  Colonna  entered,  one 
hand  resting  upon  his  staff,  while  he  held  a  small  package 
with  the  other ;  behind  him  came  Catherine,  his  daugh- 
ter, and  Benvenuta,  his  granddaughter,  each  of  them 
carrying  a  small  casket. 

"  This  package,  my  noble  guest,"  said  Colonna,  "  con- 
tains what  wealth  I  possess,  in  bills  of  exchange  upon 
Ajaccio  and  Paris.  Sire,  it  is  yours.  You  shall  remain 
my  debtor  until  better  days  dawn ;  there  is  enough  to 
charter  and  fit  out  other  ships  at  Ajaccio,  to  take  you 
to  an  asylum  of  safety." 

The  two  women  then  advanced,  and  without  speaking, 
placed  the  caskets  beside  Colonna's  package  upon  the 
table.  The  king  opened  them,  and  all  kinds  of  orna- 
ments in  diamond  and  coral  were  sparkling  there.  He 
pressed  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  fell  back  in  his  chair, 
and  sobbed  aloud.  When  he  had  become  sufficiently 
composed  to  find  words  to  thank  his  hosts  and  removed 
his  hands  from  his  eyes,  he  was  alone ;  the  papers  and 
the  caskets  of  jewels  had  also  disappeared;  Frances- 
chetti,  however,  in  the  evening  informed  him  that  men 
in  whom  confidence  could  be  placed  had  gone  to  Ajaccio 
to  purchase  and  fit  out  ships  there,  with  more  caution. 

The  treachery,  Murat  had  soon  forgotten ;  he  only 
thought  what  faithful  friends  he  had,  and  that  since 
France  had  confiscated  his  ships,  he  vowed  war  against 
her!  France,  not  he,  had  begun  the  contest !  France, 
not  he,  had  violated  the  sacred  obligations  of  hospital- 
ity! If  he  now  summoned  the  Corsicans  to  protect  him, 
he  was  forced  to  it, — the  duty  of  self-preservation  com- 
pelled him  to  do  so. 

"  Hardly  half  a  century  ago,"  said  he,  "  did  not  an 


Mattea.  123 

adventurer  make  his  appearance  upon  these  shores  and 
become  King  of  Corsica  ?  And  might  not  I,  a  sovereign 
known  to  fame,  succeed  in  doing  what  the  obscure  The- 
odore Neuhoff  accomplished,  were  it  merely  to  put  my 
enemies  to  confusion,  and  show  them  that  I  can  leave 
this  island  with  pride  and  power,  and  without  humili- 
ation ?" 

The  next  morning,  in  full  dress,  as  was  his  custom 
upon  going  into  battle,  wearing  his  uniform  of  dazzling 
white,  and  his  red  sash,  he  left  his  apartments  and  de- 
scended the  stairs,  resolved  to  join. the  armed  men  and 
place  himself  at  their  head.  Below  he  was  joined  by 
Franceschetti,  who,  however,  did  not  wear  the  uniform 
of  an  adjutant-general  of  Murat,  as,  out  of  respect  to  the 
king,  he  had  done  lately,  but  a  plain  short  Corsican 
coat  of  brown  cloth,  the  pellone.  Seeing  this,  the  king 
slightly  frowned,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  displeasure, 
though  with  a  smile :  "  Franceschetti,  you  divine  my 
thoughts  too  well,  and  give  me  advice  without  speaking 
a  word." 

He  stood  some  time  in  meditation,  and  then  pursued: 
"  Some  deliberation  is,  of  course,  necessary  before  one 
scatters  sparks  in  a  powder  cask,  but  upon  the  field  of 
battle,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  one  should  listen  to  the 
promptings  of  the  moment,  for  these  are  sent  by  Provi- 
dence* Let  us,  at  all  events,  go  out  among  the  brave 
people,  whose  hands  I  must,  for  once,  press.  To  main- 
tain reserve  longer,  would  be  cold  ingratitude." 

He  went.  Haughty  and  proudly  erect,  he  stepped 
upon  the  threshold,  and  as  he  stood  there,  he  cast  a  com- 
manding look  over  the  encampment.  But  when  he  again 
started  .to  pursue  his  way,  a  voice  below  him  cried,  as  if 
from  the  depths  of  the  earth : 


124  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"  King,  king,  the  same  fortune  does  not  smile  twice 
on  the  same  mortal !" 

He  started  and  looked  down  ;  there  sat  Mattea  in  her 
accustomed  place  upon  the  lower  step,  looking  up  toward 
him  with  eyes  full  of  warning  and  compassion.  Her 
hood  had  fallen  back  over  her  shoulders,  exposing  to 
view  her  heavy  white  hair,  and  she  looked  like  a  witch 
or  prophetess  who  places  herself  in  warning  across  the 
path  of  human  destiny. 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Murat. 

"  A  woman  whose  past  has  been  made  up  of  days  of 
suffering,  and  who  therefore  sees  the  unhappy  days  of 
the  future." 

"How  do  you  come  here  ?"  he  further  asked. 

"I  am  Benvenuta's  nurse;  you  can  trust  me." 

These  last  words  strengthened  the  impression  of  the 
warning,  as  Murat  saw  that  they  proceeded  from  a 
friendly  heart;  fearful,  however,  lest  the  old  woman 
might  say  still  more  to  further  depress  him,  he  hastily 
descended  the  steps,  and  strode  across  the  court-yard  to 
the  square. 

Tumultuous  shouts  of  joy  were  raised  to  heaven  ;  the 
clashing  of  weapons  resounded  like  that  of  a  mighty 
host.  From  every  side  of  the  square  where  they  had 
encamped,  from  the  convent,  from  the  houses  and  cot- 
tages, armed  men  hastened  forward  and  took  their 
places  in  well  ordered  divisions,  as  they  had  been  taught 
by  the  officers.  Before  each  division,  stood  tried  leaders, 
whom  Murat  recognized  as  having  fought  with  him  upon 
old  battle-fields.  The  stateliest,  however,  and  as  invinci- 
ble as  the  old  imperial  guard,  were  the  powerful  band 
who  occupied  the  center  of  the  square,  in  the  highest 
degree  warlike,  although  wearing  simply  the  national 


Mattea.  125 

costume,  the  pellone,  girdle,  and  Phrygian  cap.  They 
comprised  not  less  than  eight  hundred  veterans  of  Cor- 
sican  blood,  all  of  whom  had  served  under  Murat,  and 
who  had  assembled  during  the  few  days  past,  and  these 
would  be  followed  by  still  others.  They  shouted  the 
war  cry,  which  Murat  recognized  but  too  well,  and  as  he 
passed  along  their  ranks,  each  one  shouted  the  name  of 
the  battles  he  had  fought  under  him — Aboukir,  Eylau, 
Borodino,  and  other  names.  The  story  of  his  glory,  his 
grandeur,  and  his  remarkable  career,  thus  sounded  con- 
tinually in  his  ears,  and  penetrated  deep  into  his  soul. 
He  was  speechless  ;  he  could  only  extend  his  hands  right 
and  left.  He  had  already  passed  through  the  whole 
camp  several  times,  but  he  must  needs  go  through  the 
ranks  over  and  over  again.  All  was  now  silent  like 
himself;  the  brave  men  merely  followed  his  every  mo- 
tion with  their  eyes.  Suddenly  a  murmur  passed  through 
the  ranks,  and  there  was  heard  the  clicking  sound  of 
rifles  as  they  were  cocked,  and  finally  a  low  laugh  ran 
through  the  camp.  Murat  looked  around  and  perceived 
the  troops  of  La  Verriere  upon  the  heights,  and  he  under- 
stood the  meaning  of  that  Jiollow  laugh. 

"If  I  should  lead  them  against  the  enemy  at  this 
moment,  in  half  an  hour  it  would  be  annihilated,  and  in 
three  days  I  should  be  master  of  the  island,''  thought 
the  king,  "this  magnificent  island,"  he  continued,  cast- 
ing his  eye  over  the  paradise  of  Vescovato  :  "  but  for  the 
very  reason  that  it  is  magnificent,  ought  I  to  stain  it 
with  blood  ?  Ought  I  to  bring  all  the  horrors  of  such 
a  war  as  they  would  be  unable  to  support,  upon  these 
people  who  have  received  me  as  a  fugitive,  and  as  no 
other  land  upon  the  wide  earth  would  have  done  ?  No  ! 

12 


126  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

And  if  I  should  lose  all  power  and  be  defeated, — I 
cannot  perish ;  I  am  no  adventurer  like  that  Theodore 
Neuhoff,  King  of  Corsica." 

The  best  and  finest  chords  in  the  nature  of  this  child 
of  fortune  and  misfortune  trembled  and  vibrated  with 
sweet  and  lovely  tones,  tones  which  a  long  military  ca- 
reer could  not  wholly  stifle,  and  which  had  at  all  times 
won  him  so  much  love  and  fidelity.  He  knew  that  at 
such  a  moment  he  should  not  speak,  that  tears  would 
force  back  words,  and  that  to  conceal  these  he  might 
pour  forth  inflaming  language,  whose  consequences,  in 
his  present  position,  might  be  incalculable.  He  there- 
fore did  not  speak  ;  simply  waving  his  hand  on  either 
side,  he  smiled,  and  returned,  silently  and  with  a  down- 
cast head,  to  the  house. 

There,  at  the  entrance,  in  waiting  expectation,  stood 
Nadir,  Benvenuta,  and  her  mother.  They  also  were 
silent  as  the  king  approached,  but  Mattea  exclaimed : 

u  A  blessing  on  your  silence,  0  king;  you  have  to- 
day merited  a  new  crown.'* 

"  Have  I  your  approbation,  old  woman?"  laughed 
Murat.  "  I  am  glad  of  that,  for  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
have  the  spirit  of  prophecy." 

He  remained  standing  before  her  some  moments, 
folded  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  and  gazed  at  her 
thoughtfully;  and  as  it  was,  in  truth,  very  hard  for  him 
to  return  from  the  camp  to  his  life  of  inaction  in  the 
house,  he  took  a  seat  upon  the  bench  near  the  steps,  and 
said  : 

"  You  were  speaking,  a  short  time  ago,  of  a  past,  full 
of  sorrow;  give  an  account  of  it  to  one  whose  past  has 
been  full  of  happiness." 

"  That  will  I,"  returned  Mattea,  "  that  you  may  know 


Mattea.  127 

with  what  a  land  you  have  to  do,  for  my  lot  is  the  lot  of 
Corsican  women." 


MATTEA'S   HISTORY. 

Marioni  and  Ugualdo  were  children  living  in  two  ad- 
joining houses  in  the  village  of  Sessia,  a  couple  of 
leagues  from  here,  on  the  way  to  Ajaccio.  Their  fami- 
lies had  long  lived  in  peace  and  friendship,  and  had  stood 
by  each  other  in  many  dangers.  These  two  likewise 
grew  up  in  friendship  by  each  other's  side,  and  were, 
moreover,  companions  in  arms  at  the  period  when  Pas- 
quale  Paoli  defended  the  liberties  of  the  fatherland 
against  the  Genoese.  The  many  services  which,  during 
that  terrible  war,  they  mutually  rendered  one  another, 
served  to  strengthen  their  friendship.  Pasquale  Paoli 
was  an  outlaw,  and  Corsica  had  been  betrayed  and  sold 
to  the  French,  when  one  summer's  night  they  were  sitting 
before  the  house  of  one  of  them,  speaking  of  past  times. 
Marioni  said  that  Corsica  would  not  have  been  lost  had 
Pasquale  Paoli  possessed  the  warlike  and  resolute  spirit 
of  his  brother,  Friar  Clemens.  Ugualdo  disputed  this, 
an  unfortunate  word,  an  insulting  one,  was  dropped; 
they  both  ran  in  doors,  and  returned  with  their  double- 
barreled  guns ;  two  shots  were  fired,  and  Marioni  fel- 
dead.  Ugualdo  fled  to  the  thicket,  where  he  wandered 
but  a  short  time,  and  then  went  to  France,  where  he  en- 
listed as  a  soldier,  and  as  such  was  sent  to  America. 
There  he  fell. 

Marioni  left  behind  him  a  son,  Mario  Marioni,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  avenge  the  death  of  his  father.  Ugualdo 
had  a  brother,  who,  notwithstanding  the  close  proximity 
of  the  avenger,  immediately  took  possession,  as  heir,  of 


128  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  house  of  the,  brother  who  had  taken  flight,  and  in 
which  he  now  lived,  together  with  his  young  son.  Liv- 
ing thus  near  one  another,  they  exercised  the  greatest 
caution;  they  closed  up  the  windows,  and  even  the  two 
boys  never  went  into  the  court-yard  unarmed.  Ugualdo 
saw  Marioni,  the  youthful  avenger,  growing  up,  with 
anxiety,  and  the  more  so,  because  it  was  known  that  his 
mother,  a  true  Corsican  woman,  daily  reminded  him  of 
the  sacred  duty  which  he  had  to  perform.  She,  however, 
watched  over  him,  lest  he  should  expose  himself  to  the 
bullets  of  the  eager  foe.  When  he  labored  in  the  field, 
she  kept  her  watchful  eye  upon  him;  when  he  went 
into  the  town,  she  ran  now  before,  and  now  behind  him, 
now  toward  the  right,  and  now  toward  the  left,  to  search 
the  bushes  where  Ugualdo  might  be  hidden.  Once  on 
their  way  to  Bastia,  she  suddenly  saw  a  musket  barrel 
pointed  out  from  the  bushes.  She  had  barely  time  to  throw 
herself  upon  her  son,  and  shield  him  with  her  body, 
and  immediately  fell  a  corpse  to  the  ground.  Ugualdo 
had  escaped.  Mario  had  now  both  father  and  mother  to 
avenge.  Ugualdo  did  not  fly  to  the  woods,  for  it  was  in 
a  time  when  the  officers  were  not  so  much  to  be  dreaded  ; 
and  as  for  Mario,  he  hoped  to-be  even  with  him,  espe- 
cially as  his  son,  who  had  long  since  grown  up,  aided 
him,  and  had  Marioni's  death  likewise  in  view. 

I  was  not  far  off  when  Marioni's  mother  fell,  for,  sir, 
Mario  and  I  had  loved  each  other  for  a  long  time';  and 
for  a  long  time  I  also,  like  his  mother,  ran  before  and 
behind  him,  right  and  left,  when  he  went  out,  to  save  him 
from  Ugualdo's  bullets.  I  aided  him  in  bearing  home  his 
dead  mother,  and  never  left  the  house  afterward.  He 
married  me,  but  before  doing  so,  took  an  oath  not  to  kiss 
me  as  long  as  his  mother's  murderer  lived.  Upon  the 


Mattea.  129 

wedding- night,  after  our  kinsmen  had  left  us,  he  turned 
his  back  upon  me,  took  his  double-barreled  gun,  and 
stole  barefooted  out  of  the  house.  He  had  calculated 
well.  Ugualdo,  who  had  not  crossed  the  threshold  of 
his  dwelling  since  the  murder  of  Mario's  mother,  thought 
that  he  might  venture  to  do  so  with  safety  at  an  hour 
when  he  supposed  Mario  to  be  with  his  young  wife.  Af- 
ter having  been  shut  up  for  months,  he  stepped  quietly 
outside  the  door,  and  was  about  stretching  himself  and 
inhaling  a  long  breath  of  the  fresh  night  air,  when  the 
shot  fell  and  he  staggered  back  upon  the  threshold.  I, 
meanwhile,  was  kneeling  at  my  bedside  in  prayer.  Mario 
entered  and  kissed  me. 

Ugualdo's  son  had  also,  in  the  mean  time,  married. 
Two  young  couple  were  living  beside  each  other  in  mortal 
enmity.  Two  young  wives  were  performing  their  labor 
in  the  two  court-yards,  and  within  sight  of  each  other, 
whose  husbands  had  each  a  deadly  bullet  in  waiting  for 
the  other.  It  was  a  wretched  life.  Any  one  passing  the 
two  houses  must  recognize  at  once  that  the  mark  of  the 
vendetta  was  upon  them.  The  doors  were  barricaded 
and  the  windows  closed  up  with  planks,  mattresses,  and 
straw;  small  loop-holes  only  looked  out  from  the  win- 
dows and  walls,  like  false  eyes.  They  were  the  port-holes 
at  which  the  enemies  watched  for  each  other.  Sons  were 
born  to  Ugualdo  and  to  ourselves;  their  fathers  did  not 
accompany  them  to  the  baptismal  font.  Their  mothers 
labored  in  the  field,  both  of  them  in  terror,  lest  the  ene- 
my might  break  into  their  houses  and  slay  their  hus- 
bands while  they  were  away.  Kind  friends  many  times 
came  as  parolanti,  and  sought  to  mediate  between  us, 
and  terminate  this  dreadful  misery.  But  was  reconcili- 

12* 


180  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

ation  possible  when  the  father  and  mother  of  my  Mario 
had  been  murdered? 

Ugualdo  had  a  small,  strong,  stone  house  built  upon  a 
point  of  rising  ground  in  his  garden,  and  which  was 
closed  on  all  sides,  and  was  provided  with  but  a  single 
loop-hole,  which  looked  upon  our  door.  Mario  could  not 
pass  it.  He  in  return,  however,  opened  another  port, 
hole  in  the  roof  of  his  house,  which  in  the  same  way 
commanded  a  view  of  the  small  stone  tower,  so  that 
Ugualdo  also,  did  not  dare  to  quit  his  prison.  Here  our 
boys  grew  up.  They  often  exercised  with  their  double- 
barreled  guns  in  the  court-yard.  Ah,  how  their  mothers 
felt  when  they  heard  the  shots  !  Oh,  did  they  but  know 
upon  whom  those  shots  would  fall  in  the  future!  One 
day  when  they  were  both  shooting,  we  two  mothers  saw 
each  other  in  the  court-yards,  and  we  both  burst  into 
tears.  As  the  boys  grew,  we  had  to  tremble  for  them 
also.  Ugualdo  sent  his  among  relatives  at  Calvi.  My 
Matteo  would  not  leave  me,  and  remained  at  home.  He 
used  to  sit  in  the  dusky  room  and  play  the  violin.  It  was 
the  sole  pleasure  that  enlivened  our  wretched  existence. 

There  came,  however,  one  short  tranquil  happy  period, 
and  here  indeed,  in  this  blessed  house  of  the  Colonna. 
I  received  an  application  to  act  as  nurse  to  this  darling 
Benvenuta,  whom  her  mother  could  not  nurse,  for  a  false 
report  that  came  shortly  after  the  birth  of  her  child,  of  the 
death  of  Franceschetti,  her  husband,  had  deprived  her 
of  milk.  We  stole  from  our  house  one  dark  night,  and 
fled  here, — Mario,  Matteo,  my  little  daughter,  and  I. 
Shortly  afterward  my  little  girl  died,  and  my  love  for 
her  I  transferred  to  the  lovely  Benvenuta.  During  our 
stay  here,  we  were  safe;  for  Ugualdo  knew  that  he  must 


Mattea.  131 

not  kill  a  guest  of  the  Colonna,  unless  he  wished  to  make 
all  the  men  of  Vescovato  his  mortal  enemies.  We  could 
have  lived  here  always,  but  after  a  year  had  elapsed, 
Mario's  conscience  could  not  sleep.  His  enemies  were 
still  alive,  the  future  murderers  of  his  child. 

One  dark  night  he  glided  out,  supposing  that  his  ab- 
sence had  lulled  Ugualdo  into  security,  and  that  he  might 
easily  meet  him,  as  he  left  his  house  in  the  morning. 
But  they  say  that  Ugualdo,  the  night  previously,  was 
warned  by  a  dream,  others  say  that  a  woman  had  foretold 
to  him,  that  Mario  would  that  night  leave  the  house  of  the 
Colonna,  and  still  others  suppose  that  he  said  to  himself 
that  Mario's  conscience  would  not  permit  him  to  rest 
quiet  more  than  a  year  and  a  day.  I  do  not  know  how 
it  was, — all  I  know,  alas!  is  that  Mario  had  not  gone  a 
hundred  paces  from  the  village,  when  Ugualdo's  bullet 
struck  him.  He  stood  before  him,  close  before  him,  and 
fired  before  Mario  had  time  to  take  his  musket  from  his 
shoulder.  He  shot  him  through  the  heart.  The  next 
morning  he  was  brought  to  me  across  this  threshold. 

I  did  not  weep  much,  sir.  Ask  Signora  Catharina 
here,  if  I  did.  I  buried  Mario  with  a  vocero,  which  is 
still  sung  all  over  Corsica,  kissed  my  blessed  Benvenuta, 
and  returned  home  to  Sessia  with  Matteo.  There,  within 
sight  of  the  murderers,  and  beneath  their  bullets,  he 
should  grow  to  be  a  man  and  avenger.  Ugualdo  trembled 
when  he  again  saw  the  house  inhabited,  and  he  brought 
his  son  Bartolomeo  back  from  Calvi.  His  daughter  had 
married  in  the  mean  time,  his  kinsmen  had  increased  in 
power  in  the  village,  thereby  exposing  Matteo  to  still 
greater  danger.  That  did  not  terrify  us.  We  no  longer 
cultivated  the  land,  we  did  nothing  but  watch  for  our 
enemies,  and  observe  their  every  step.  We  should  have 


132  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

famished  with  hunger  had  not  Signora  Catharina  sent 
us  the  means  of  life. 

Year  after  year  thus  passed  away.  We  seldom  left 
the  house  except  to  come  here  by  a  circuitous  route  and 
visit  our  Benvenuta.  Soon  after  we  came  back,  we 
noticed  that  Ugualdo  had  escaped.  Was  it  from  fear  of 
my  Matteo  or  of  the  officers,  who,  under  the  Emperor 
Napoleon,  had  again  begun  to  be  active?  Perhaps  he 
hoped  that  Matteo,  like  so  many  young  people  of  that 
time,  would  be  taken  as  a  soldier,  and  would  be  sent  to  a 
distance.  Until  then  he  wished  to  lead  a  more  quiet  life. 
But  Matteo  also  was  fearful  of  being  taken  as  a  soldier, 
and  of  thus  being  prevented  from  the  execution  of  his  re- 
venge, and  he  hastened  after  Ugualdo  into  the  Macchia. 

I  remained  at  home  to  watch  whether  Ugualdo  might 
not  yet  return,  constantly  trembling  lest  they  should 
bring  into  the  village  the  enemy's  corpse  or  that  of  my 
child.  It  was  but  seldom  that  I  saw  Matteo,  in  a  cave 
where  I  took  him  the  means  of  supporting  life.  Weeks, 
however,  passed  away,  and  Matteo  had  not  discovered  a 
trace  of  the  enemy,  and  none  of  the  outlaws  had  seen  him, 
when  it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  he  might  have  se- 
creted himself  in  the  village.  I  got  ready  and  went  to 
Bastia,  where  I  spent  five  whole  days  in  searching  lanes 
and  alleys,  until  I  heard  in  the  harbor  that  Ugualdo  went 
as  a  sailor,  back  and  forth  between  Caprera  and  Bastia. 
I  immediately  informed  Matteo,  and  brought  him  from 
the  woods.  He  hired  a  skiff,  and  toward  evening  put  to 
sea,  and  let  himself  drift  between  Caprera  and  Bastia. 
At  morning  twilight  a  boat  was  coming  along  from  the 
island,  so  Matteo  stretched  himself  out  flat  in  the  bot- 
tom of  his  skiff,  with  his  face  downward,  and  waited.  The 
boat  came  along,  and  as  the  empty  skiff  was  drifting  by, 


Mattea.  133 

it  drew  near  to  see  what  it  meant.  Ugualdo  was  in  the 
boat,  Heaven  be  praised,  and  Matteo's  gun  was  cocked. 
My  child  sprang  up,  and  his  father  was  avenged.  Mor- 
tally wounded,  Ugualdo  staggered  back  into  his  boat, 
and  was  brought  by  his  fellow-seamen  to  Bastia  a  corpse. 

Matteo,  however,  did  not  repair  at  once  to  the  woods, 
although  the  officers  from  Bastia  were  already  behind 
him,  but  first  returned  to  the  village,  through  which  he 
walked,  holding  his  gun  aloft,  and  singing  as  he  went. 
Bartolomeo  knew  what  that  signified.  Then  only  did 
Matteo  go  to  the  Macchia,  and  in  order  to  be  near  him, 
I  followed  him.  The  outlaws  built  me  a  small  hut,  in 
which  I  hoped  to  live  as  long  as  Matteo  did.  We  are 
afraid  of  the  officers  merely,  and  not  of  Bartolomeo,  for 
he  appears  to  be  cowardly,  and  has  not  set  his  foot  in 
the  woods  to  watch  for  Matteo. 

He  also  lent  a  ready  ear  to  the  parolanti,  to  remain 
at  peace  as  long  as  you,  0  king,  are  upon  the  island. 
The  officers  are  not  to  be  dreaded  here,  and  thus  I  can 
breathe  in  peace  again.  Matteo  is  not  threatened  by 
death  these  days;  he  is  living  again  among  men,  and  can 
lie  down  to  sleep  in  quiet,  and  I  sit  here  happy,  and  look 
on  and  see  him  laugh  and  play  the  violin  once  more.  To 
your  presence  here,  0  king,  I  owe  this,  and  above  all,  to 
my  blessed  Benvenuta,  whom  may  Heaven  watch  over  for- 
ever and  ever.  If  I  have  had  a  few  tranquil  days  dur- 
ing my  sorrowful  life,  it  has  always  been  through  her 
that  they  have  come. 

"A  blessing  rests  upon  you  everywhere,  Benvenuta," 
said  the  king,  smiling,  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  young 
girl's  head,  and  gently  held  it  back  that  he  might  look 
into  her  eyes;  and  then  more  gravely  added:  "What  a 


134  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

people,  what  a  land  where  such  a  lot  dwells  from  gen- 
eration to  generation  in  the  lowliest  cottages,  like  the 
grand  royal  houses  of  the  olden  time !  What  great^eeds 
could  be  accomplished  with  such  a  people!" 

" Believe  it  not,  0  king,"  exclaimed  Mattea;  "death, 
not  life,  finds  its  home  here.  Here  Bonaparte,  the  scourge 
of  Heaven,  was  born.  Ally  not  your  fortunes  to  those 
of  this  nation,  for  your  nature  is  a  cheerful  one,  and  can 
smile  and  laugh;  the  soul  of  this  people  is  ever  brooding 
in  revenge.  Our  song  is  the  song  of  death." 

The  incredulous  smile  with  which  he  listened  to  her 
words  proved  how  well  the  old  woman  understood  him. 
"  She  is  afraid,"  thought  he,  "that  I  shall  bring  war 
upon  the  island,  and  that  her  Matteo  will  follow  me.  She 
wishes  to  frighten  me  with  the  warnings  of  a  sybil.  But 
have  I  really  any  idea  of  exchanging  my  fair  kingdom 
of  Naples  for  this  small  island  ?  May  I  not  be  at  home 
there,  where  I  have  scattered  deeds  of  kindness  abroad, 
and  where  ten  thousand  hearts  are  beating  with  gratitude 
toward  me  ?" 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    MORESKA. 

HOWEVER  confused  and  complicated  had  been  the -sit- 
uation of  public  affairs  in  most  of  the  countries  of  Europe 
after  the  second  overthrow  of  the  Bonaparte  regime  in 
France,  it  bore  not  the  slightest  comparison  to  the  com- 
plications, and  entanglements,  and  general  commotion 
in  the  condition  of  the  Island  of  Corsica,  as  exhibited 
during  the  fourteen  days  following  the  landing  of  Murat. 
While  all  over  the  continent,  factions  seemed  to  have  been 
crushed  by  the  triumphs  of  the  allies,  or  merged  into 
one  party  amid  the  shouts  of  victory,  and  while  the 
world,  weary  of  protracted  warfare,  was  preparing  for  a 
lasting  peace,  there  commenced  upon  Corsica  such  a 
violent  disruption  of  parties  as  is  wont  to  precede  an 
outbreak.  The  condition  of  the  island  was  indeed  re- 
markable. As  for  centuries  previous,  so  now,  it  ap- 
peared to  be  about  to  pursue  its  own  path  in  perfect  in- 
dependence, and  make  its  own  history  without  regard  to, 
and  unconnected  with,  that  of  the  continent.  The  old 
enmity  with  France,  which  had  only  slumbered  during 
the  first  years  of  the  revolution,  when  hopes  were  enter- 
tained of  securing  Corsican  liberty,  now  awoke  anew, 
after  the  overthrow  of  Napoleon,  and  even  during  his 
ascendency.  Who  were  these  Bourbons  to  whom  "an  in- 
dependent people  should  render  submission,  merely  be- 
cause Paris  had  been  taken  by  the  allies  ?  Were  they 

(135) 


136  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

not  the  descendants  of  that  family  which  had  betrayed 
Corsica,  and  bought  it  from  the  Genoese  like  a  herd  of 
cattle  ?  And  what  had  Corsica  in  common  with  France, 
who  just  at  a  time  when  she  was  prating  most  loudly  of 
liberty,  persecuted  and  outlawed  Pasquale  Paoli,  liberty's 
greatest  hero,  the  patriarch  and  father  of  European 
freedom,  and  the  very  soul  of  Corsica?  It  was  only 
those  holding  office  on  the  island  who  adhered  to  the 
Bourbons,  together  with  that  faction  of  legitimists  which 
was  composed  in  part  of  the  old  Corsican  nobility,  and 
in  part  of  the  enemies  of  Bonaparte,  who  had  a  greater 
proportionate  number  of  opponents  on  his  native  liberty- 
loving  island,  than  in  all  France.  During  the  most  bril- 
liant period  of  his  career,  Corsica  surrendered  herself 
unresistingly  to  England,  because  England  favored  lib- 
erty more  than  France  and  Napoleon  favored  it.  Now, 
when  the  English  ships  appeared  at  Bastia  and  Ajaccio, 
the  English  faction  again  raised  its  head.  In  defense, 
however,  of  Murat,  the  son  of  the  people  and  child  of 
the  revolution,  the  husband  of  a  Corsican,  and  brother- 
in-law  of  Napoleon,  that  most  daring  warrior,  to  whom 
had  been  confided  the  most  important  undertakings,  a  fugi- 
tive and  refugee,  who,  although  the  Bourbons  claimed  it 
as  their  own,  had  surrendered  himself  to  the  island  with 
complete  confidence,— in  defense  of  Murat  there  arose 
en  masse  those  veterans  who  had  fought  under  him  or 
Napoleon,  the  partisans  of  Bonaparte,  the  old  republi- 
cans, and  all  those  to  whom  he  seemed  sent  to  restore 
Corsican  independence,  and  finally  all  such  inhabitants 
of  Corsica  as  considered  it  their  duty  to  render  succor 
to  the  fugitive.  His  arrival  shook  the  island  in  its  remot- 
est corner.  Everywhere,  parties  united  and  took  up  arms, 
and  three  camps  in  different  parts  of  the  island  stood 


The  Moreska.  137 

ready  for  battle.  Within  three  weeks  after  Murat's  land- 
ing, a  large  number  of  country  towns  presented  the  same 
appearance  as  Vescovato.  This  place,  however,  or  rather 
the  house  of  Colonna  Ceccaldi,  was  the  spot  where  the 
fortunes  of  the  movement  were  to  be  decided.  A  signal 
there  for  the  opening  of  the  conflict  would,  within  three 
days,  change  the  entire  country  into  a  battle-field. 

Murat  very  well  knew  the  condition  of  the  island. 
All  the  officers  who  had  joined  him  did  not  view  the 
matter  like  Franceschetti,  who  trembled  for  his  native 
land,  as  well  as  for  the  king ;  they  were  heartily  desirous  of 
embarking  upon  some  enterprise,  and  an  effort  to  obtain 
possession  of  Corsica  seemed  more  grateful  to  them  than 
a  fresh  expedition  against  Naples,  which  the  Austrians 
still  occupied  with  a  strong  military  force.  Once  masters 
of  Corsica,  they  imagined  that  it  would  be  easier  to  fit 
out  an  expedition  powerful  enough,  in  connection  with 
the  partisans  of  Murat  in  Naples,  to  replace  the  king 
upon  his  throne.  They  had  established  a  kind  of  Prop- 
aganda, on  their  own  account,  upon  the  island,  and  daily 
received  couriers  from  every  quarter,  who  kept  them 
informed  as  to  the  state  of  things,  and  as  the  intelli- 
gence sounded  favorable,  they  did  not  delay  communi- 
cating it  to  the  king.  Murat  had  also  another  source 
of  information.  The  look  which  he  had  cast  into  Ben- 
venuta's  eyes,  showed  him  that  truth  and  fidelity  had 
their  seat  there,  and  her  he  commissioned  to  make  ob- 
servations, and  report  to  him.  This  she  did  with  a  zeal- 
ous earnestness  peculiarly  her  own  ;  she  heard  not  only 
the  statements  of  the  couriers,  but  especially  those  of 
such  men,  from  among  the  masses,  as  came  to  Vesco- 
vato from  a  distance,  and  then  informed  the  king  of 
what  she  had  learned,  without  reserve  or  suggestions  of 

13 


138  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

her  own.  And  as  her  reports  agreed  with  those  of  the 
officers,  how  could  Murat  doubt  himself  to  be  already 
master  of  the  island  ? 

He  heard  the  sybil-like  cries  of  warning  which  Mattea 
always  uttered  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  and  he  now 
often  left  the  house  to  go  around  among  the  armed  mul- 
titude upon  the  square.  He  already  felt  at  home  in  the 
camp,  and  the  hours  which  he  spent  in  his  room  passed 
as  tediously  as  if  they  had  been  hours  of  captivity.  The 
constant  appearance  of  the  French  troops  upon  the 
heights  seemed  an  insult,  and  he  felt  it  a  disgrace  that, 
with  so  many  brave  men  under  his  command,  he  was  not 
permitted  to  drive  them  back. 

It  was  Nadir  who  afforded  him  some  slight  satisfac- 
tion in  this  respect. 

For  some  days  past  the  Arab  had  not  loitered  among 
the  trees  in  the  garden ;  he  wandered,  like  a  restless 
spirit,  about  the  surrounding  country,  heedless  whether 
he  trod  upon  friendly  or  hostile  ground.  The  early 
morning  dawn  often  saw  him  on  some  hill,  far  from  Co- 
lonna's  house,  or  reclining  beneath  a  tree,  or  under  a 
hedge,  his  eyes,  however,  always  directed  toward  the 
place  from  which  he  had  fled  as  if  driven  by  the  furies. 
He  had  called  the  attention  of  the  king  to  Benvenuta, 
because  he  felt  obliged  to  speak  of  her,  and  now  that 
his  Majesty  so  often  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head  and 
looked  upon  her  so  tenderly,  the  house  became  intolera- 
ble to  him.  The  preparations  which  were  making  for 
the  conflict  directed  his  thoughts  to  war  and  combat, 
and  he  hoped — vaguely  uncertain  whether  it  was  death 
for  which  he  was  hoping,  or  whether  it  was  that  by  the 
performance  of  great  deeds  of  valor,  or  perhaps  merely 
by  being  able  to  offer  some  sacrifice  to  the  man  in  whom 


The  Moreska.  139 

was  bound  up  all  her  enthusiasm,  and,  it  might  -be,  her 
heart,  he,  himself,  would  be  enabled  to  win  Benvenuta's 
regard. 

He  was  thus  lying  one  morning,  when  he  suddenly  saw 
himself  observed  by  a  small  body  of  La  Verriere's  soldiers, 
who  had  approached  by  an  unusual  route.  He  sprang 
up  and  seized  his  rifle,  which  he,  after  the  custom  of  the 
Corsicans,  and  in  accordance  with  the  practice  of  the 
camp  in  which  he  was  living,  always  carried  with  him. 
The  soldiers,  however,  beckoned  to  him  in  a  friendly 
manner,  and  one  of  them,  an  old  scar-worn  trooper, 
approached  him,  and  said  :  "  You,  no  doubt,  are  the  Ara- 
bian who  came  with  King  Joachim?"  Nadir  assented, 
and  the  soldier,  with  a  friendly  salute,  "Adieu  man 
brave!"  withdrew,  it  might  be  because  they  were  for- 
bidden in  any  way  to  commence  hostilities,  or  because — 
which,  from  his  behavior,  seemed  the  more  probable — he 
was  one  of  the  soldiers  who  did  not  altogether  like  to 
fight  against  Murat  or  his  adherents. 

Nadir,  however,  considered  it  his  duty  to  leave  the 
hostile  neighborhood,  to  avoid  being  captured,  or  to  pre- 
vent the  outbreak  of  hostilities,  but  he  had  hardly 
proceeded  a  hundred  steps  down  the  valley,  when  he 
suddenly  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  young  offi- 
cer in  French  uniform,  who  was  seated  under  a  hedge, 
gazing  intently  at  Colonna's  house.  Nadir  readily  re- 
cognized him,  and  knew  what  that  look  signified.  It 
was  the  same  young  officer  who  had  accompanied  La 
Verriere  into  the  house,  and  who  had  been  pointed  out 
to  him  as  Benvenuta's  relative  and  fance!  Nadir  looked 
at  him  with  compassion;  for  who  upon  the  wide  earth 
was  capable  like  himself  of  understanding  the  grief  that 
cast  so  dark  a  shadow  over  the  young  officer's  handsome 


140  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

countenance  ?  He  would  have  offered  him  comfort,  he 
would  willingly,  after  the  custom  of  the  East,  have  whis- 
pered in  his  ear  one  of  those  sayings  of  wisdom,  which, 
pointing  out  the  brevity  of  human  life,  fall  like  soothing 
oil  upon  the  billows  of  despair,  and  allay  the  smarting 
of  the  wound,  if  only  for  a  few  moments, — for  human 
misery  is,  after  all,  stronger  than  any  human  wisdom. 
He  did  not  venture  to  disturb  the  unfortunate  man  thus 
brooding  over  his  grief;  he  would,  however,  wait  to  see 
whether  he  should  be  noticed,  and  whether  the  young 
officer  might  not  perhaps  inquire  after  Benvenuta.  He 
would  then  speak  of  her,  and  thus,  possibly,  he  might  do 
him  good.  But  the  Corsican  is  constituted  differently 
from  the  thoughtful  Oriental. 

Galvani  Serra  did  indeed  observe  him  as  he  abruptly 
and  angrily  turned  from  Colonna's  dwelling  with  a  ges- 
ture which  seemed  to  say:  "  Curse  the  house  !"  Hardly 
had  he  observed  Nadir,  when  a  flash  of  anger  passed 
over  his  countenance,  and  he  sprang  up,  drew  his  pistol 
from  his  girdle,  and  with  the  exclamation,  "  Have  I  got 
you,  accursed  conjurer!"  leveled  it  at  Nadir.  But  he 
was  standing  so  near  the  Arabian  that  the  latter  suc- 
ceeded, with  a  light  movement,  in  grasping  his  arm  in 
front  and  throwing  it  up,  so  that  the  ball  merely  grazed 
his  scalp. 

The  report  acted  like  a  signal.  The  soldiers  rushed 
down  from  the  heights,  and  the  men  in  Vescovato  came 
pouring  forth  in  multitudes ;  in  an  instant  the  report  of 
rifles  was  heard  in  every  thicket,  and  the  troops  seemed 
to  be  almost  entirely  surrounded.  With  fiercer  battle- 
cries  than  ever,  fresh  masses  streamed  out  from  the 
village,  and  already  in  the  distance  were  heard  single 
shots  and  shouting,  a  sign  that  the  Corsicans  who  were 


The  Moreska.  141 

encamped  beyond  Vescovato  had  broken  up,  and  were 
also  hastening  forward.  Galvani  Serra  perceived  into 
what  clanger  he  had  brought  the  troops  by  his  inconsid- 
erate deed,  and  that  on  him,  perhaps,  might  rest  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  outbreak  of  civil  war,  and  without 
further  heeding  that  Nadir,  notwithstanding  all  this,  was 
standing  quietly  by,  with  his  rifle  untouched  upon  his 
shoulder,  rushed  toward  the  soldiers,  and  hastily  led  them 
back  to  the  heights.  It  had  the  appearance  of  a  flight, 
and  the  Corsicans  shouted  after  them  with  sneers,  and 
would  have  pursued  them  quite  to  their  camp  had  not 
Franceschetti  appeared,  mounted  on  horseback,  and 
ordered  them  back  into  the  village. 

Nadir  saw  little  of  what  was  passing,  for  the  blood 
was  streaming  down  over  his  eyes.  He  laughingly  called 
for  help,  until  finally  Matteo  observed  him,  and  led  him 
like  a  blind  man  back  to  the  village. 

Though  all  this  was  the  work  of  but  a  few  minutes,  it 
was  sufficient  to  throw  all  Vescovato  into  commotion, 
and  to  draw  women  and  children  to  the  doors  of  their 
houses.  A  large  crowd  gathered  about  Nadir,  and  ac- 
companied him  to  Colonna's  house,  where  Catherine, 
Beiivenuta,  and  the  aged  Mattea  were  standing  upon  the 
steps,  gazing  at  the  returning  warriors.  Benvenuta, 
seeing  Nadir's  bleeding  head,  hastened  to  him,  hastily 
tore  off  the  turban,  and  with  the  composure  of  a  woman 
of  Corsica,  carefully  examined  the  wound. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Nadir  smiling,  and  he  rejoiced 
at  the  wound  to  which  he  owed  the  touch  of  that  hand. 

"No,"  said  Benvenuta  in  assent,  leading  him  into  the 
house,  "it  is  nothing,  an  injury  of  no  moment,  but  it  is 
important  to  know  who  it  is  that  has  attacked  you, 
whether  he  be  a  Corsican,  an  officer,  or  a  common  soldier, 

13* 


142  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

as  every  one  knows  you,  and  is  aware  that  you  are  a  firm 
friend  of  the  king." 

"You  are  well  acquainted  with  my  assailant,"  replied 
Nadir  smiling. 

Benvenuta's  countenance  darkened.  "  Galvani !"  she 
exclaimed  with  alarm. 

"You  have  guessed  it.  But  why  do  you  start?  Is 
his  bullet  more  dangerous  than  that  of  any  one  else  ?" 

"Galvani  is  a  Corsican  !  Beware,  Nadir!  that  pis- 
tol was  not  aimed  at  you  as  a  friend  of  Murat.  I  know 
how  he  has  expressed  himself  arid  with  what  intense 
jealousy  he  views  you." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Nadir;  "ought  I  not  to  know, 
in  order  the  better  to  understand  the  enemy  I  have?" 

"  He  is  jealous,"  Benvenuta  calmly  replied;  "he  im- 
agines that  it  was  for  your  sake  that  I  gave  him  back 
my  engagement  ring;  he  is  jealous  of  you,  Nadir!" 

Nadir's  head  drooped,  and  he  sighed  deeply,  while  a 
bitter  smile  played  about  his  lips.  He  was  at  that  moment 
a  picture  of  beauty,  and  at  the  same  time  of  grief,  as 
he  opened  his  large,  gentle,  black  eyes,  shaded  by 
long  lashes,  looked  up  at  her,  and  in  a  kind  of  jesting 
self-derision,  murmured  in  a  low  tone :  "  Jealous  of 
me!" 

He  felt  Benvenuta's  hand  slightly  tremble  as  she 
bound  her  handkerchief  about  his  head.  Both  were 
silent.  At  last  Benvenuta  said  :  "You  love  me  ;  I  know 
it!" 

Nadir  started  and  sank  down  as  though  he  should 
succumb  beneath  the  burden  of  these  words;  at  the 
same  time  bending  his  head  like  a  person  who  trem- 
blingly listens,  in  intense  expectation,  for  something 
farther. 


The  MoresJca.  143 

"Be  strong,  Nadir,  my  friend,"  continued  Benvenuta 
in  a  low  tone.  "  This  is  not  the  time  to  yield  up  one's 
heart  to  sentiments  of  tenderness.  Great  events  seem 
to  be  hovering  in  the  atmosphere  around,  and  a  noble 
soul  should  have  no  thought  for  himself,  for  his  own 
happiness  or  misery.  My  sole  thoughts  and  endeavors 
are  for  the  fortunes  of  this  man  over  whose  head  will  soon 
hover  his  bright  star,  or  else  black  ruin.  I  believe  in  him 
and  shall  love  him  as  long  as  he  remains  a  fallen  king,  a  fu- 
gitive without  a  home.  My  heart  tells  me  that  should  a 
sad  fate  be  his,  I  should  love  him  forever,  but  should  he 
return  a  king  to  his  palace  in  Naples,  I  shall  feel  to- 
ward him  once  more  as  of  old,  and  shall  think  of  him 
as  the  brave  Murat,  of  whose  valor  and  deeds  I  loved 
to  hear — Murat,  Queen  Caroline's  husband,  who  will  be 
separated  from  me  by  the  timid  reserve  of  a  modest 
maiden.  I  have  examined  my  heart,  and  know  this." 

A  ray  of -'hope  beamed  on  Nadir's  heart.  He  seized 
her  hand,  and  asked,  in  fear  and  hope:  "  And  then? 
Suppose  he  is  victorious?" 

"Of  course,"  replied  Benvenuta,  "I  shall  love  those 
friends  who  have  been  true  to  him  in  adversity." 

"And  then?"  again  asked  Nadir  more  earnestly. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  then,"  replied  Benvenuta  sadly ; 
"  I  know  you,  Nadir ;  you  are  stronger  than  the  gen- 
erality of  men,  and  you  have  that  higher  strength  which 
is  denied  to  so  many  strong  men,  the  power  of  living  for 
others.  Forget  yourself — you  can  do  it.  You  surely 
know  that  fate  never  created  and  designed  for  each  other 
two  human  hearts,  one  of  whom  was  born  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Nile  and  the  other  upon  this  island,  and 
between  whom  diverse  faiths  stretch  an  impassable  waste 
and  abyss.  Yet,"  added  she,  after  an  instant's  reflec- 


144  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

tion,  "  that  would  be  nothing ;  if  I  loved  you,  I  could 
follow  you  to  the  banks  of  the  Nile." 

Nadir  pressed  her  hands  to  his  bosom ;  she  bent  over 
him  and  said:  "  Kiss  me." 

A  cry  was  half  wrung  from  his  breast,  but  died  away 
before  it  was  uttered.  He  threw  his  arms  about  her,  and 
pressed  his  lips  upon  her  mouth  until,  overcome  by  bliss, 
his  arms  fell  inertly  at  his  side,  and  with  closed  eyes, 
he  murmured  :  "  Enough — enough  happiness  for  a  life- 
time !" 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  his  brow,  and  whispered 
expressively  in  his  ear,  so  that  it  was  heard  by  the  half- 
unconscious  man  :  "  For  a  lifetime  !  It  was  so  intended, 
my  friend;  farewell!"  and  then,  with  a  light  tread,  she 
left  the  apartment. 

*  Vescovato,  in  the  mean  time,  had  undergone  a  com- 
plete change  ;  village  and  hills  had  become  a  theater  and 
stage ;  a  large  number  of  warriors  had  changed  into 
play-actors,  and  the  military  encampment  was  a  place 
of  festivity. 

The  king,  aroused  by  the  warlike  tumult,  had  come 
out,  and  was  received  with  shouts,  for  in  view  of  the 
hasty  retreat  of  the  enemy,  who  had  even  quit  the 
heights,  the  Corsicans  felt  as  though  they  had  won  a 
victory  for  Murat ;  and  thus  shouting,  they  quickly  pro- 
ceeded to  the  performance  of  a  play,  the  celebration  of 
a  fete  which  they  had  prepared  long  since,  in  honor  of 
their  guest. 

A  chair  for  the  king  was  placed  upon  a  slight  eleva- 
tion before  his  house,  and  upon  his  right  and  left  were 
seats  for  the  members  of  Colonna's  family  and  that  of 
Franceschetti.  Upon  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  upon  the 
hills  and  trees,  in  expectation  and  excitement,  but  yet 


The  Moreska.  145 

respectful  in  their  demeanor,  were  seated  men,  women, 
and  children, — for  the  Moreska  was  to  be  performed,, 
that  ancient  national  dance  of  the  Corsicans  of  which 
every  child  had  heard,  as  of  something  wonderful,  but 
which  few  knew,  as  it  was  performed  but  seldom,  and 
then  in  times  of  great  importance  and  excitement.  It 
was  known  by  all  that  this  dance  had  been  performed 
before  Sampiero  and  Paoli,  the  two  greatest  national 
heroes,  and  every  one  was  inspired  with  a  spirit  of  reli- 
gious devotion  by  the  thought  of  seeing  what  these  had 
seen,  and  the  fact  that  the  Moreska  was  to  be  performed 
was  considered  by  all  as  a  kind  of  prophecy  that  great 
events  were  in  progress. 

Upon  a  small  platform  in  the  middle  of  the  square 
stood  waiting  Matteo,  with  his  violin. 

"  You'll  see/'  said  his  mother,  who  had  stationed  her- 
self between  Murat  and  the  aged  Colonna,  "you'll  see, 
gentlemen,  what  a  thorough  Corsican  I  brought  up  my 
Matteo,  and  how  he  can  play  all  the  melodies  of  the 
Moreska  as  well  as  if  he  had  been  by,  at  the  very  time 
when,  after  the  conquest  of  Marianna,  they  invented 
the  dance  and  composed  a  song  to  keep  it  in  perpetual 
remembrance, — I  have  sung  him  the  songs  so  often,  be- 
side the  cradle,  and  afterward  in  the  Maccliia,  to  cheer 
up  his  spirits." 

At  a  given  signal  from  the  Capuchin  monastery,  from 
which  a  green  banner  was  waving,  Matteo  indeed  com- 
menced to  play  upon  his  violin  a  melody  which,  with  the 
following  ones,  had  a  peculiar  character,  as  if  they 
sprung  from  ancient  times  and  distant  lands.  As  soon 
as  the  music  began,  the  theater  appeared  transformed, 
and  there  seemed  a  general  expectation  that  strange 
forms  would  appear  and  deeds  and  wonders  of  a  fabu- 


146  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

lous  age  take  place.  Although  he  played  with  no  ac- 
companiment, yet  the  tones,  which  were  on  a  high  key, 
and  somewhat  shrill,  were  so  full  that  they  could  be  dis- 
tinctly heard  all  over  the  village,  and  the  sound  was  so 
peculiar  that  it  made  the  hearers  fancy  that  it  was  not 
a  violin  to  which  they  were  listening,  but  some  new, 
unknown,  or  rather  ancient  instrument  which  had  long 
since  been  forgotten. 

"  Doesn't  one  imagine  that  he  hears  the  devout 
prayers  of  the  Christians  and  the  despair  of  the  Sara- 
cens?" asked  Mattea,  and  added:  "As  you,  Signor 
Colonna,  are  a  descendant  of  Hugo  Colonna,  that  great 
hero  who  delivered  Corsica  from  the  Saracens,  and  who 
is  the  hero  of  the  Moreska,  I  think  it  must  ring  in  your 
blood  just  as  it  does  from  Matteo's  violin,  and  that  it 
must  be  as  familiar  to  you  as  the  sound  of  your  own 
voice." 

"  The  melody,"  answered  the  aged  man,  "  is  certainly 
as  dear  to  me  as  life,  but  not  because  I  am  a  Colonna, 
but  because  I  am  a  Corsican.  I  saw  the  Moreska  per- 
formed here,  in  my  happy,  youthful  days,  before  Pasquale 
Paoli;  how  should  I  have  forgotten  it?  Those  were 
times  of  a  heroic  bravery  greater  than  that  of  warfare 
with  the  Saracens,  greater  even  than  that  of  the  times 
which  we  all  have  witnessed,  not  excepting  Napoleon's 
great  battles,  for  then  a  feeble  people  were  struggling 
for  a  great  cause, — for  liberty." 

"You  are  right,  my  aged  host,"  assented  Murat ; 
"  since  I  have  studied  your  history  and  that  of  your  na- 
tion, the  wars  of  the  Empire  and  my  own  victories 
appear  utterly  devoid  of  soul,  and  seem  like  deeds  of 
the  coldest  selfishness.  Beneath  my  government  in  Na- 
ples, liberty  increased  in  a  degree  before  unknown  to  the 


The  Moreska.  147 

land,  yet  with  my  whole  heart  I  wish  once  more  while  I 
live,  to  gain  the  power  to  atone  for  all  the  guilt  which 
Napoleon  and  all  his  paladins  have  brought  upon  them- 
selves, by  infringing  upon  the  liberties  of  the  people. 
What  are  we,  who  made  ourselves  kings  after  the  manner 
of  those  of  former  days,  when  compared  with  those  men 
spoken  of  in  your  Filippini,  those  shepherds  who  used 
their  feeble  strength  to  accomplish  great  deeds,  not 
for  themselves,  but  for  their  country  and  its  liberties  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Colonna,  "  Corsica  is  a  good  school  for 
kings,  because  here  so  many  have  scorned  to  make  them- 
selves kings  who  might  easily  have  done  so — and  this  is 
the  reason  that  Napoleon  never  loved  the  island,  al- 
though it  is  his  native  land." 

"Attention!"  said  Mattea,  "  the  play  is  beginning. 
The  convent  represents  the  Christian  town  of  Aleria  or 
Marianna,  which  the  Saracens  have  possession  of." 

While  she  was  speaking,  a  man  issued  from  the  con- 
vent, in  flowing  raiment,  with  a  long  beard,  a  high  hat, 
and  a  white  staff  in  his  hand. 

"That,"  said  Mattea,  by  way  of  explanation,  "is  the 
heathen  astrologer  and  soothsayer !" 

The  soothsayer  began  to  draw  magic  circles  with  his 
white  staff  in  the  air,  then  looking  fixedly  toward  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe,  he  listened  with  dismay  to 
the  mournful  tones  of  the  violin,  and  then  -returned  to 
the  town  of  Aleria,  or  the  Capuchin  convent,  with  every 
sign  of  anguish  and  despair.  He  had  discovered  no 
favorable  omens  for  the  Moors. 

Suddenly  a  powerful-looking  man  appears  upon  the 
scene,  a  wide  mantle  flowing  from  his  shoulders  and 
lying  in  ample  folds  across  his  bosom,  and  in  his  hand 
glitters  a  naked  sword.  The  violin  utters  a  cry  of  joy, 


148  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

in  which  the  people  upon  the  house-tops,  trees,  and  hills 
around,  join,  for  the  hero  is  Count  Hugo  Colonna.  An- 
cient songs,  which  have  been  strangely  preserved  in 
memory,  burst  from  the  breasts  of  the  people,  and  so 
powerful  a  chorus  resounds,  that  the  air  vibrates,  and  the 
tones  of  the  violin  are  heard  but  at  fitful  intervals, 
above  the  singing.  Solemnly  and  in  measured  cadence 
resounds  the  chorus,  and  then  the  host  draws  near  Count 
Hugo,  and  marches,  with  a  tread  half  military  and  half 
priestly,  around  the  square,  while  daggers  and  swords, 
lit  up  by  the  sunlight,  glitter  in  hundreds  of  hands,  and 
accompany  the  chorus  in  measured  movement  with  the 
clashing  of  their  blades.  Advancing  to  the  challenge, 
the  band  of  Christian  warriors  now  move  by  serpentine 
windings  before  the  fortress,  where,  firm  as  a  bulwark, 
they  at  last  remain  standing,  and  prepare  to  storm  the 
citadel.  The  violin  and  chorus  are  silent,  and  a  solemn 
stillness  reigns  around.  A  bugle  now  sounds,  a  summons 
for  the  Moorish  king  to  surrender  to  the  Cross. 

The  Moorish  king  is,  however,  too  valiant  to  sur- 
render, or  even  to  defend  himself  behind  protecting 
walls ;  the  gate  flies  open,  and  he  advances  upon  the 
open  battle-field  at  the  head  of  his  turbaned  host.  At  his 
appearance  shouts  are  heard  anew ;  the  violin  strikes  up, 
and  the  chorus  again  commences  ;  again  in  ancient  song 
the  people  celebrate  with  impartial  spirit  the  virtues  of 
the  foe ;  above  all,  they  laud  the  charming  grace  of  the 
king  of  the  Moors,  his  beautiful  eyes,  and  his  light 
tread,  as  graceful  in  the  conflict  as  in  the  dance.  The 
Moors  also  carry  swords  and  daggers,  which  they  wave 
and  clash  until,  as  the  sunlight  plays  upon  these  count- 
less blades,  they  seem  like  one  glaring  sea  of  flame. 

The  two  hosts  now  stand  face  to  face ;  the  swords 


The  Moreska.  149 

clang  as  they  meet,  the  chorus  again  commences,  and 
violin,  bugle,  voices,  and  the  measured  tread  of  feet 
blend  in  an  earth-stirring  and  heart-moving  harmony. 
The  conflict  sways  hither  and  thither,  now  advancing 
and  now  retreating,  at  times  the  Christians  and  at  times 
the  Moors.  Equally  friendly  to  both,  the  chorus  cele- 
brates their  deeds,  now  encouraging  and  now  lamenting  ; 
the  warriors'  dance  sways  hither  and  thither  in  varied 
measure,  ever  harmonious  in  movement,  as  if  rocked  on 
the  billows  of  sound.  It  seems  like  a  battle  between 
specters,  for  the  combatants  are  speechless ;  a  visionary 
conflict,  or  a  contest  between  souls  risen  from  the  dead. 

Murat  had  sprung  from  his  seat  and  unconsciously 
drawn  his  sword.  In  no  one  of  his  hundred  battles  had 
he  felt  as  now ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  for  the  first  time 
found  what  he  had  formerly  sought  in  the  excitement  of 
conflict.  Nadir  had  long  before  rushed  into  the  ranks 
of  the  Mohammedans,  and  fancied  that  he  was  about  to 
meet  a  glorious  death.  Catherine,  Benvenuta,  and  even 
the  aged  Colonna  himself,  joined  in  the  chorus. 

At  that  moment  two  Corsican  women  came  running 
across  the  square,  leading,  or  rather  dragging  along,  a 
man  who,  held  fast  as  he  was  by  the  strong  arms  of 
both,  advanced  pale  and  trembling,  like  a  prisoner  on 
his  way  to  trial  or  to  death.  Was  this  a  part  of  the 
drama  of  the  Moreska,  or  sad  reality  ?  The  man  ap- 
peared in  too  much  misery  and  mortal  terror  for  an 
actor,  nor  did  he  wear  any  of  the  tokens  which  distin- 
guished the  Christians  and  the  Moors.  Without  honor- 
ing the  war-dance  with  a  look,  completely  occupied  with 
their  prisoner,  and  with  countenances  glowing  with  in- 
dignation, the  women  pressed  forward  to  Murat,  at 

14 


150  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

whose  feet,  knocked  down  by  an  angry  blow,  the  terri- 
fied man  suddenly  lay  stretched. 

"What  is  this  ?"  demanded  Murat ;  "is  this  a  part  of 
the  play?" 

"  No,  your  Majesty,"  replied  one  of  the  women, 
"  treachery  has  no  part  in  that  sacred  spectacle.  This 
play  is  a  bad  one.  I  noticed  this  man  steal  through  the 
crowd,  dropping  printed  circulars  as  he  went.  I  picked 
up  one  of  them  and  took  it  to  Louisa  here,  who  can 
read  printing,  and  in  it  she  read  that  the  French  have 
offered  a  reward  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs 
for  your  head.  Here  it  is, — here's  the  circular, — and  he 
had  thrown  away  a  whole  pile  of  them,  when  we  cap- 
tured him  and  brought  him  to  you." 

Murat  cast  a  glance  of  contempt  first  on  the  circular 
and  then  on  the  man  at  his  feet,  and  said : 

"  Who  fears  treachery  among  such  a  people  ?  Let 
him  go  and  scatter  his  circulars  unhindered  ;  there  is  no 
Judas  here.  Let  us  not  disturb  the  sacred  drama,  good 
women  !" 

"The  king  speaks  wisely,"  exclaimed  Louisa;  "let 
him  scatter  his  French  circulars  !"  And  the  women  who 
had  come  with  eyes  flashing  with  anger  just  before,  now 
ran  off  laughing ;  while  the  prisoner,  from  whom  every 
eye  was  already  turned,  stole  away  like  a  man  who  has 
just  escaped  the  gallows. 

All  this  took  place  amid  the  resounding  of  the  cho- 
rus and  the  clang  of  arms.  For  a  long  time  the  Chris- 
tian and  Moorish  hosts  swayed  solemnly  back  and  forth 
with  regular  movement,  now  separated  and  now  with  in- 
termingled ranks,  now  in  straight  lines  and  now  surging 
together,  sometimes  fighting  in  concert  and  sometimes 
hand  to  hand,  but  always  with  a  movement  that  was 


The  Moreska.  151 

measured,  harmonious,  and  grand.  All  at  once  the  con- 
flict raged  with  unusual  violence,  and  the  chorus  swelled 
to  a  tone  of  thunder ;  a  curse,  a  furious  curse,  was  ut- 
tered against  the  enemies  of  Corsica,  not  against  the 
Moors,  but  against  Genoa,  for  when  the  Corsicans  wished 
to  utter  a  heartfelt  curse,  Genoa  was  substituted  for  the 
name  of  the  foe,  for  it  was  the  Genoese  who  had  for  so 
many  centuries  defrauded  them  of  their  liberty.  The 
Moorish  king  threw  down  his  sword  and  fell  to  the  earth  ; 
the  Corsicans  had  conquered;  the  bugles  sounded,  and 
amid  tumultuous  shouts,  Count  Hugo  Colonna  entered 
the  fortress,  and  the  Cross  waved  above  the  vanquished 
town. 

Deep  stillness  suddenly  reigned  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Vescovato.  Matteo's  violin  alone  was 
heard  as  it  played  the  air  of  a  peaceful  herdsman  in 
tranquil  fields. 

Murat,  deeply  moved,  stood  leaning  against  the  aged 
Colonna's  seat.  "  How  happy  are  you,  reverend  sir," 
he  said  with  a  quivering  voice,  "  in  being  a  descendant 
of  heroes  who  brought  freedom  to  their  native  land,  and 
in  still  living  a  hero  among  heroes  !  To  bring  freedom — 
freedom!  That  wins  a  different  glory  from  conquest." 

He  gazed  in  silence  upon  the  gray  head  of  the  patri- 
arch, and  then  continued:  "I  must  begone,  and  soon, 
otherwise  these  people  will  make  me  a  dreamer,  or,  as 
Napoleon  was  wont  to  say,  an  idealist." 

And  with  a  drooping  head  and  slow  step  he  returned 
to  the  house. 

Langlade,  one  of  the  three  officers  who  took  him  aboard 
their  boat  out  at  sea,  was  waiting  for  him  upon  the  thresh- 
old. He  had  come  during  the  war-dance,  but  would  not 
disturb  the  king,  whom  he  saw  so  deeply  interested.  He 


152  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

now  hastily  announced  that  the  ships  at  Ajaccio  were 
equipped  and  were  ready  to  sail. 

"  Shall  I  then  indeed  leave  this  island  ?"  said  the  king 
to  himself;  "would  it  be  impossible  to  persuade  the  au- 
thorities to  permit  me  to  lead  a  peaceful  life  here  ?  Could 
I  not  send  for  my  wife  and  children  and  live  here  in  hap- 
piness ?  And  if  the  Bourbons  would  not  consent,  could 
I  not,  with  the  aid  of  these  valiant  people,  oblige  them 
to  do  so  ?  We  will  speak  of  the  matter  still  further, 
dear  Langlade,  but  I  must  first  sleep  away  the  effects  of 
this  dream  of  the  Moreska." 

He  ascended  the  stairs  toward  his  apartment^,  but 
stopped  at  the  entrance  in  surprise,  for  there  stood  at 
the  door  a  stranger,  whom  he  did  not  know,  and  whose  ap- 
pearance and  attire  differed  from  that  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  country  around,  to  which  Murat  was  now  accus- 
tomed. He  seemed  like  a  man  from  the  city,  was  clad 
in  a  complete  suit  of  black,  had  small  and  delicate  feat- 
ures, and  shrewd- looking  eyes,  and  presented  anything 
but  a  military  appearance,  looking  more  like  a  scholar  or 
advocate.  He  bowed  to  the  king  courteously,  but  with- 
out servility. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  me  ?"  asked  Murat. 

"Yes,  your  Majesty." 

"Who  are  you?" 

UA  Carbonaro  from  Naples." 

"A  Carbonaro  from  Naples?"  exclaimed  the  king  in 
sudden  emotion.  "And  you  wish  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  to  see  your  Majesty  !    I  am  sent  by  the  Venta" 

"Sent  to  me  by  the  Venta?  To  me,  Joachim  Napo- 
leon?" demanded  the  king,  with  increasing  agitation. 
"What  do  they  want  of  me?" 

"  Emancipation  from  the  Bourbon  yoke  !" 


The  Moreska.  153 

"  Emancipation  !"  exclaimed  Murat.  "  Come,  walk 
in,  sir, — show  your  credentials  and  you  will  find  me 
ready." 

They  both  hastily  entered  the  room,  the  door  of  which 
Murat  bolted  behind  him. 

Hardly  an  hour  later  all  Vescovato  was  again  in  mo- 
tion. Officers  were  hastening  hither  and  thither.  They 
had  been  commissioned  to  choose  four  hundred  brave 
volunteers  to  accompany  the  king  to-morrow  or  the  day 
after,  to  Ajaccio, — and  perhaps  farther. 

The  little  man  in  black  had  disappeared.  As  no  one 
had  seen  him  come,  so  no  one  saw  him  go. 


CHAPTER  XT. 

THE     DEPARTURE. 

THE  decline  of  Murat  forms  but  a  short  after-piece  of 
that  great  tragedy,  in  which  during  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century  many  distinguished  actors  played  a  part. 
While  the  latter  made  the  world  and  mankind  tremble, 
the  former  was  performed  apart  from  the  history  of  na- 
tions, upon  a  small  spot  of  territory,  with  only  a  few 
hundred  men  as  actors  and  witnesses,  but,  as  comported 
with  the  character  of  the  hero,  upon  that  small  space 
and  during  the  brief  period  occupied  by  the  performance 
of  this  after-piece,  there  is  a  larger  field  for  romance 
than  during  the  mighty  and  tempestuous  closing  years 
of  the  Emperor  Napoleon;  years  rendered  devoid  of 
anything  romantic  by  his  own  cold  selfishness.  Daring, 
danger,  the  rise  and  fall  of  fortune,  joy,  sorrow,  hopes, 
and  fears,  are  all  here  mingled;  everything  has  individ- 
uality and  is  of  an  extraordinary,  graphic,  and  dramatic 
character. 

And  thus  it  was  at  the  departure  of  Murat  from  Ves- 
covato,  on  the  second  day  after  the  performance  of  the 
Moreska.  The  departure  itself  was  a  fanciful  piece  of 
acting,  drawn  from  the  stage. 

In  his  rich  white  uniform,  with  his  red  sash,  and  with 

the  waving  plume  upon  his  marshal's  hat,  and  mounted 

upon  a  white  and  prancing  steed,  Joachim  Murat  rode 

away  from  the  hospitable  dwelling  of  Colonna  Ceccaldi. 

(154) 


The  Departure.  155 

Beside  him  rode  Franceschetti,  his  adjutant-general ;  and 
behind  him,  by  his  particular  request,  Signora  Cathe- 
rine Franceschetti,  and  her  daughter  Maria  Benvenuta, 
were  mounted  upon  mules,  for  the  king  imagined  that 
while  upon  Corsican  soil  he  could  feel  perfectly  conscious 
of  the  safe  and  holy  atmosphere  of  hospitality  only  when 
they  were  by.  At  their  side,  in  his  Arab  garb,  and  with 
the  bandage  upon  the  wound  on  his  head,  rode  Nadir. 
Then  came  a  number  of  officers  of  high  rank  in  brilliant 
uniform,  some  on  foot  and  some  on  horseback.  Follow- 
ing these,  under  the  command  of  single  officers,  came  the 
chosen  band  of  veterans,  about  four  hundred  in  number, 
all  clad  in  the  dark-brown  pelone  and  wearing  the  Phry- 
gian cap,  but  with  arms  of  various  kinds  upon  their 
shoulders.  Behind  this  disciplined  troop  there  came, 
walking  on,  or  running  in  disorder  beside  it,  about  fifty 
outlaws,  dressed  in  pelones  or  in  goat-skins,  with  broad- 
brimmed  hats  upon  their  heads,  double-barreled  guns 
hanging  over  their  shoulders,  while  their  girdles  were  well 
filled  with  cartridges  and  daggers. 

Matteo,  too,  was  among  them.  He  came,  however,  in  the 
middle  of  the  procession,  playing  his  violin  with  a  will, 
sometimes  a  march  and  sometimes  a  melody. 

His  rifle  was  carried  by  his  mother,  who  strode  along 
with  the  procession,  looking  like  the  goddess  of  battles, 
grown  gray  in  the  service. 

All  the  people  from  Vescovato  and  the  surrounding 
country  were  collected  in  the  village,  shouting  their  bless- 
ings after  the  procession,  and  bade  the  king  a  powerful 
farewell  that  made  the  air  resound.  The  bells  of  the  Ca- 
puchin convent  were  rung,  and  the  armed  men  who  had 
remained  behind  discharged  their  muskets  in  the  air,  and 
brought  the  echo  from  the  mountains  back  again.  At 


156  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  door  of  his  house,  surrounded  by  his  domestics,  stood 
the  aged  Colonna,  waving  his  thin  and  delicate  hand. 
The  king  waved  his  handkerchief  back  toward  the  hospi- 
table dwelling,  and  toward  the  people  on  his  right  and 
left,  pressing  it  many  times  to  his  eyes. 

"If  I  ever  gain  power  again,"  said  he  to  Frances- 
chetti,  with  a  quivering  voice,  "may  I  be  plunged  into 
misery  if  I  do  not  rear  lasting  monuments  of  my  grati- 
tude here,  in  this  spot  consecrated  to  hospitality,  this 
blessed  asylum.  Like  a  humble  pilgrim,  I  will  journey 
hither  and  make  such  an  offering  that  the  poorest  may 
close  his  days  in  comfort !" 

Although  these  words  came  with  sincerity  from  a  heart 
that  was  touched  with  emotion,  and  although  he  wiped 
away  many  tears  from  his  eyes,  his  face  looked  as  cheer- 
ful as  if  he  were  in  the  spring  tide  of  happiness,  and  his 
countenance  beamed  with  serenity  upon  his  suite  and 
upon  all  the  people,  who,  as  they  saw  him  leave,  felt  con- 
vinced that  he  was  going  forward  to  meet  a  new  and 
brilliant  destiny. 

In  accordance  with  the  king's  wish,  the  people  accom- 
panied him  only  as  far  as  the  last  house  in  the  place,  but 
the  shouts  and  adieus  bursting  from  many  hundred 
throats,  and  strengthened  by  the  echo,  followed  the  pro- 
cession far  beyond  the  village.  The  men  remained  under 
arms,  as  they  had  done  lately,  and  encamped  a  part  within 
the  village,  and  a  part  without,  in  the  direction  of  Bastia, 
to  oppose  the  troops,  should  they  come  from  the  town 
to  annoy  the  king  on  his  retreat,  or  undertake  to  follow 
him. 

Thus  the  little  army  wended  its  solitary  way  west- 
ward upon  the  road  to  Ajaccio.  And  now  the  people  of 
Vescovato  must  go  up  into  the  tower  of  the  Capuchin 


The  Departure.  157 

convent  to  descry  the  procession  through  the  shrubbery, 
and  soon  nothing  was  visible  save  the  king's  white  plume, 
and  the  glitter  of  the  weapons  played  upon  by  the  sun- 
light, until  finally  these  disappeared  in  a  grove  of  chest- 
nut-trees, when  the  bells  ceased  ringing,  and  the  people 
of  Vescovato  felt  as  though  they  had  just  awaked  from 
a  dream. 

An  unusual  silence  reigned  in  the  place  which  for 
weeks  had  been  so  animated;  the  inhabitants  seemed  to 
feel  that  they  must  not  break  the  solemn  stillness  by  a 
loud  word,  and  moved  about  in  their  dwellings  with  a 
light  step,  either  in  silence  or  speaking  only  in  whispers. 

Not  thus  quiet  was  it  with  Murat,  as  he  journeyed  on. 
The  songs  of  the  herdsmen  greeted  him  from  the  mount- 
ains, and  here  and  there,  too,  were  heard  solitary  rifle 
discharges  in  his  honor.  Where  the  road  led  across  the 
Macchias,  savage  and  wretched  forms  appeared,  outlaws 
with  whom  the  parolanti  were  unable  to  reconcile  their 
enemies,  or  those  who  were  so  filled  with  a  spirit  of  re- 
venge that  they  did  not  wish  a  reconciliation.  They 
looked  sadly  after  the  procession,  and  gazed  with  envy 
upon  those  outlaws  who  were  following  it  in  safety.  Yet 
they  too  saluted  it  with  musket  shots.  The  women  and 
children  in  the  villages  came  out  and  offered  bread,  milk, 
and  flowers,  to  the  king  and  his  followers. 

The  September  sun  shone  out  pleasantly  and  peace- 
fully, richer  in  coloring  than  that  of  summer,  breaking 
through  the  balmy  morning  air,  which  was  heavy  with 
moisture,  iii  the  varied  tints  and  gradations  of  the  rain- 
bow; even  the  shadow  of  the  groves  and  shrubbery, 
through  which  the  procession  passed,  had  a  bluish  haze. 
The  many  springs  upon  the  road  murmured  melodiously, 
the  mountain  brooks,  at  that  season  of  the  year  still 


158  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

small  and  proportionately  shallow,  swept  gently  clown 
from  the  heights  above  or  out  from  the  dense  growth 
surrounding  the  Macchia.  Where  the  way  wound  up 
the  mountain  slope,  on  looking  downward  was  seen  the 
broad  blue  sea  in  its  sublime  repose.  Reflecting  back 
the  sunlight,  it  surrounded  the  island  like  a  halo;  and 
notwithstanding  the  wretched  forms  of  the  outlaws  who 
made  their  appearance  here  and  there  beside  the  road, 
notwithstanding  the  thoughtfulness  which  rested  upon 
the  faces  of  many  of  Murat's  followers,  as  well  as  upon 
Nadir's  and  Benvenuta's,  it  still  seemed  like  a  grand  and 
joyous  gala  day  and  the  procession  the  celebration  of  a 
fete.  It  was  not  a  dethroned,  abandoned,  unhappy  king 
who  was  thus  marching  through  hostile  territory  to  meet 
an  uncertain  fate,  but  one  invited  by  the  people  to  a 
May  festival  as  king  of  spring,  and  who  as  the  personi- 
fication of  the  spring-time  passed  on,  celebrating  the 
fete,  from  valley  to  valley  and  from  village  to  village. 

Matteo's  violin  did  its  part  toward  giving  the  proces- 
sion the  appearance  of  a  merry  May-day  festival,  for  the 
nearer  it  approached  the  village  of  Sessia,  his  native 
place,  the  more  lively  grew  his  fiddlebow.  He  had  not 
seen  the  village  for  years — years  of  pursuit,  wretched- 
ness and  deepest  misery — and  now  he  was  entering  it  in 
such  state !  His  music  became  merrier  and  quicker, 
and  involuntarily  keeping  time  to  the  melody,  the  whole 
band  moved  more  arid  more  rapidly,  almost  in  dancing 
measure,  toward  Matteo's  home.  Who  understood  him 
and  the  tones  of  his  violin  better  than  his  mother?  She 
walked  along  beside  the  procession,  smiling  as  she  went, 
looking  no  longer  like  a  witch  or  a  goddess  of  harmful 
battle,  but  seeming,  notwithstanding  the  rifle  upon  her 
shoulder,  a  good,  happy  old  mother. 


The  Departure.  159 

The  Aotes  grew  softer  as  Matteo  passed  on  near  the 
hedge  of  his  neglected  garden,  and  softer  and  still  softer 
as  he  approached  the  house,  until  they  threatened  to  die 
away  in  a  sigh  and  almost  a  moan  of  grief,  when  suddenly 
they  ceased — a  shot  had  struck  Matteo — he  staggered, 
and  then  fell  bathed  in  his  blood.  The  violin  fell  shat- 
tered to  the  ground.  A  fearful  shriek  and  the  cry, 
"  Bartolomeo!"  followed  the  shot.  The  old  woman  flew 
forward  and  threw  herself  upon*the  corpse  of  her  son, 
who,  shot  through  the  head,  had  passed  away  without  a 
sigh,  arid  lay  upon  the  earth,  reflecting,  as  it  were,  upon 
his  features,  the  soft  tones  of  his  violin,  arid  wearing 
the  gentle  smile  with  which  he  had  greeted  his  home. 

The  whole  procession  stopped  in  confusion.  Those  in 
front  hastened  to  the  rear,  and  the  entire  band  surrounded 
the  mother  arid  her  son,  paralyzed  with  dismay.  Murat 
also  had  dismounted,  and  looked  sadly  and  thoughtfully 
upon  the  dead  man. 

"It  is  a  bad  beginning,"  he  said  to  Franceschetti  in 
a  low  tone;  "a  Roman  would  turn  back." 

Benvenuta  stood  beside  the  old  woman,  motionless  and 
apparently  composed,  but  great  tears  were  coursing  down 
her  cheeks.  All  was  silent  until  Mattea  raised  her  head, 
and  in  a  clear  voice,  and  with  a  calmness  that  made  one 
shudder,  said:  "Fate  is  now  appeased;  I  knew  it." 

As  the  old  woman  spoke,  one  of  the  outlaws  stepped 
forward  and  asked:  "Did  not  the  parolanti  go  to  Bar- 
tolomeo?". 

The  old  woman  nodded  an  assent. 

"And  he  accepted  the  truce?"  pursued  the  outlaw. 

The  old  woman  again  assented. 

At  this,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  outlaws  and  villagers 
present  were  seized  by  irresistible  fury,  and  to  the  king, 


160  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

the  spectacle  was  a  fearful  one.  The  entire  band  of 
outlaws,  followed  by  a  number  of  other  men,  and  even  by 
many  of  the  veterans,  who,  until  now,  had  stood  by  in 
well-ordered  ranks  and  in  apparent  composure,  suddenly 
fell  upon  the  house  of  the  truce-breaker  and  murderer. 

A  few  moments  and  the  dwelling  was  cracking  in  every 
joint,  and  rafters  and  stones  flew  hither  and  thither;  the 
building  fell  in  and  lay  a  heap  of  ruins.  The  men  then 
attacked  the  trees  in  the  garden  and  court-yard,  and 
taking  axes,  poignards  and  knives,  scaled  the  bark  from 
their  trunks.  Shrubs  and  bushes  were  violently  trodden 
down.  This  done,  they  took  earth  from  the  garden  and 
threw  it,  together  with  beams  and  rubbish  from  the 
house,  into  the  well  until  it  was  filled  to  the  top.  Dur- 
ing all  this  work,  which  they  executed  with  boisterous 
impetuosity,  the  men,  as  well  as  the  women  who  were  look- 
ing on,  from  time  to  time  launched  curses  and  impreca- 
tions against  the  murderer,  oath  and  truce-breaker — 
everything  that  ancient  custom  decrees  against  one  who 
has  broken  a  promise  made  to  the  parolanti  and  taken  a 
bloody  revenge,  notwithstanding  the  truce  he  had  sworn. 
Had  they  found  Bartolomeo,  they  would  all  have  plunged 
their  daggers  in  his  body,  but  during  the  confusion  which 
succeeded  the  murder,  he  had  escaped.  Justice  was  not 
yet,  therefore,  fully  satisfied,  and  all  the  men  who  had 
taken  part  in  the  destruction  of  Bartolomeo's  house  and 
property,  now  approached  Mattea  and  swore  upon  the 
corpse  of  her  son,  that  they  themselves  would  assume 
the  duty  of  revenge  as  if  they  were  all  her  sons,  pur- 
suing Bartolomeo  through  every  thicket  and  cavern  in 
Corsica,  until  his  crime  had  been  expiated  by  his  death. 
They  took  an  oath  not  to  spare  him  though  they  found 
him  slumbering  upon  his  mother's  bosom. 


The  Departure.  161 

Mattea  raised  her  head  and  smiled. 

The  king  had  witnessed  the  whole  spectacle  of  de- 
struction, which  had  taken  place  in  an  incredibly  short 
space  of  time,  in  silent  dismay;  he  knew  not  whether  it 
was  the  ascendency  of  the  power  of  a  savage  nature 
which  he  saw,  or  the  execution  of  a  fearful  judgment. 
It  was  both.  The  only  word  he  uttered  was  that  which 
he  had,  at  first,  spoken  to  Franceschetti,  and  which  he 
now  several  times  mechanically  repeated  to  himself:  "A 
Roman  would  turn  back."  It  was  an  involuntary  recol- 
lection of  the  words  of  the  murdered  Marshal  Brune, 
who,  as  he  prepared  to  start  upon  his  fatal  journey, 
and  stumbled  as  he  passed  up  the  stairs,  also  said:  "A 
Roman  would  turn  back."  He  stood  wavering,  and 
looked  thoughtfully  before  him;  a  singular  illusion  con- 
fused his  mind ;  the  face  of  the  dead  man  assumed  the 
features  of  Marshal  Brune,  and  then  were  Matteo's  once 
more,  and  then  the  alternations  became  so  rapid  that  the 
features  played  back  and  forth,  the  one  into  the  other; 
and  during  these  fanciful,  confusing  transformations,  he 
many  times  saw  his  own  face,  pale  with  the  pallor  of 
death,  and  himself  laid  low  by  bullets. 

This  phantom  still  appeared  to  him  even  when  Matteo's 
corpse  had  been  taken  up  by  the  outlaws,  arid  borne  into 
the  house.  Benvenuta  held  his  head  and  Mattea  followed, 
dragging  her  son's  rifle  after  her,  by  the  strap.  All  were 
in  silent  expectation,^  for  every  one  perceived  by  the 
countenance  of  the  king  that  he  was  struggling  with 
resolutions  and  emotions  which  might  change  all  his 
plans. 

And  now  there  came  through  the  stillness,  the  rapid 
sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs,  on  the  road  from  Vescovato, 
and  every  eye  was  turned  toward  the  rider, — even  those 

15 


162  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

of  the  king,  whom  the  echoing  gallop  had  roused  from 
his  reverie.  The  rider  came  nearer,  and  a  look  of  joyful 
surprise  flitted  over  the  countenance  of  Murat  and  trans- 
formed his  gloomy,  brooding  face  like  magic. 

" Pascal  Morin,  my  noble  friend!"  he  exclaimed  in 
delight,  and  hastened  toward  him,  accompanied  by  Na- 
dir, who  had  also  recognized  him. 

It  was  he,  the  old  republican  from  the  farm  near  Tou- 
lon, and  the  king  in  no  degree  derogated  from  his  dignity, 
by  aiding  him  from  the  saddle,  while  Nadir  held  the  bridle 
of  his  horse,  which  was  covered  with  foam. 

"My  noble  friend,"  repeated  the  king,  embracing  him, 
"a  kind  Providence  sends  you  to  me  in  an  evil  moment. 
Now  that  I  see  you,  I  feel  once  more  filled  with  confi- 
dence and  courage.  And  old  Margaret,  how  is  she?" 

"  Yes,  how  is  the  good  old  woman?"  asked  Nadir  also. 

"  She,"  replied  Pascal,  giving  his  hand  to  Nadir,  with 
a  smile,  "has  ceased  caring  for  the  loneliness  of  her 
life;  she  remembers  the  days  which  the  king  passed  with 
us,  and  the  quarter  of  an  hour  we  enjoyed  with  the 
Arabian.  That  is  sufficient  to  last  her  until  she  departs 
to  bliss." 

"May  she  reach  it  in  happiness  and  peace,"  said  the 
king  fervently.  "And  yourself?"  he  then  asked.  "What 
brings  an  old  republican  on  the  forlorn  footsteps  of  a 
ruined  king?" 

"Sire,"  replied  Pascal,  "I  felt  that  I  must  warn  you. 
The  report  is  current  at  Toulon  that  you  contemplate 
landing  at  Naples,  for  the  purpose  of  again  obtaining 
possession  of  your  kingdom.  The  friends  and  agents  of 
your  Majesty  have  communicated  to  me  what  is  said  and 
known  in  reference  to  the  matter.  Certain  it  is  that  the 
entire  English  squadron  has  left  the  coast  of  France  to 


The  Departure.  163 

cruise  in  the  vicinity  of  Naples,  and  to  keep  guard  over 
all  places  where  it  would  be  possible  to  effect  a  landing. 
It  was  dangerous  to  send  a  letter  to  your  Majesty,  and 
I  therefore  set  out  myself,  to  bring  you  the  intelligence." 
" Those  English  are  eternally  crossing  my  path!"  ex- 
claimed Murat,  and  his  countenance  was  flushed  with 
anger.  "  Really,  they  seem  to  do  so  for  the  purpose  of 
strengthening  my  wavering  resolution.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago  I  was  not  certain  what  I  should  do,  but  now  I 
know.  You,  however,  a  republican  of  '93,  may  here- 
after console  yourself  with  the  reflection  that  you  have 
rendered  a  great  service  to  a  king;  to  you  I  say  that 
I  go  to  Naples  only  because  the  Bourbons  have  already 
shown  their  bloody  hands,  and  because  I  wish  to  atone 
for  past  errors  and  render  a  nation  free.  I,  myself, 
am  more  at  liberty  now  than  when  I  was  the  creat- 
ure and  vassal  of  the  emperor.  Know  that  the  Car- 
bonari have  called  me  and  they  are  expecting  me.  I 
shall  be  able  to  fight  my  way  through  the  English  and 
through  the  hirelings  of  the  Bourbons;  once  in  the 
country,  all  the  friends  of  liberty  will  rally  around  me, 
and  we  both  know,  from  the  year  '90,  what  volunteers 
for  liberty  can  accomplish  against  mercenaries.  I  for- 
got it,  and  Bonaparte  did  also;  the  world  shall  now  call 
it  to  mind.  Give  me  but  three  days  upon  Neapolitan 
territory,  and  a  new  history  has  begun  for  Europe.  I 
thank  you,  Pascal  Morin;  a  short  time  ago  I  was  de- 
spondent ;  you  have  inspired  me  with  fresh  courage.  Your 
message  of  to-day,  and  your  countenance  of  '93,  are 
both  a  perfect  fountain  of  courage  and  high  resolve.  I 
thank  you!  Farewell;  return  to  your  peaceful  asylum, 
and  you  shall  never  repent  having  rescued  a  king!  Nor 


164  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

shall  good  old  Margaret!  Greet  her  for  me!  Fare- 
well !" 

"Sire,"  still  said  Pascal,  in  a  timid  manner,  "but 
suppose  you  are  unable  to  force  your  way  into  the  in- 
terior of  the  country,  suppose  you  do  riot  reach  your 
friends?" 

"The  man  speaks  wisely,"  Franceschetti  here  broke 
in;  "suppose  you  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English,  or 
rather,  which  is  still  worse,  suppose  you  are  taken  by  the 
garrisons  on  the  coast?" 

"Then,"  exclaimed  Murat,  "I  shall  have  been  ruined 
while  venturing  upon  a  great  undertaking,  and  shall  at 
least  close  my  career  neither  as  a  prisoner  of  England 
nor  a  pensioner  of  Austria,  but  as  a  hero,  in  the  earnest 
desire  to  give  liberty  and  happiness  to  a  people  whose 
destiny  was  once  confided  to  me." 

Pascal  communicated  to  him  a  few  more  details  in 
reference  to  the  measures  which  France  had  set  afoot  to 
prevent  any  possible  landing  at  Naples,  and  which,  he 
added,  would  surely  be  multiplied  by  the  Neapolitan 
government;  Murat,  however,  no  longer  paid  heed  to 
his  statements  and  warnings. 

The  bloody  and  dreadful  drama  which  he  had  just 
witnessed,  and  which  had  filled  him  with  horror,  was  en- 
tirely forgotten ;  no  resolution  formed  since  he  landed 
upon  the  island  had  been  as  firm  as  the  present  one. 
He  gave  a  signal,  the  trumpets  sounded,  the  horsemen 
again  mounted,  the  men  resumed  their  places  in  the 
ranks,  and  the  outlaws  hastened  from  the  house  of 
mourning. 

The  latter  were  followed  by  Catherine  and  Benvenuta, 
who  were  to  take  leave  of  the  king,  for  Benvenuta  would 


The  Departure.  165 

not  leave  her  nurse  alone,  in  her  deep  distress.  They 
both  embraced  Franceschetti  in  silence,  and  in  silence 
Benvenuta  approached  the  king,  who  had  just  placed  his 
foot  in  the  stirrup.  He  was  so  deeply  absorbed  in 
thought  that  he  did  not  notice  her,  and  he  would  have 
applied  his  spurs  to  the  horse's  flanks  without  having 
bade  her  farewell,  had  not  Franceschetti  called  to  him 
and  said  :  "  My  wife  and  daughter,  your  Majesty,  wish 
to  remain  behind  with  the  unhappy  woman,  and  they 
desire  to  take  leave  of  you." 

Murat  awoke  as  if  from  a  dream,  dismounted,  gave 
Catherine  his  hand,  and  pressed  Benvenuta's  head  to  his 
breast.  His  countenance,  however,  had  the  expression 
of  one  whose  thoughts  are  far  away,  and  it  seemed  to 
Benvenuta  that  she  had  suddenly  become  possessed  of 
second  sight,  and  that,  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  she  was 
gazing  upon  the  face  of  the  dead.  A  cold  shudder 
passed  through  her  whole  frame,  and  with  a  powerful 
movement,  she  disengaged  herself  from  his  arm,  which 
lay  with  a  heavy  weight  upon  her  shoulder,  and  the  word 
"Adieu"  burst  from  her  bosom,  more  like  an  anxious 
sigh  than  a  farewell. 

Murat  sprang  again  into  his  saddle,  and  galloped  ra- 
pidly away,  followed  by  the  whole  troop.  Benvenuta 
stood  in  the  road  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  with  both 
hands  pressed  over  her  eyes,  as  if  fearing  to  again  see 
him  whose  face  she  had  gazed  upon  as  that  of  the  dead. 
But  her  hands  were  gently  drawn  away.  Nadir  stood 
before  her,  and  softly  said: 

"Farewell,  Benvenuta!" 

"Nadir!"  exclaimed  she  timorously,  "are  you  still 
here?  0  stay,  stay — the  king  goes  to  meet  his  doom  !" 

15* 


166  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"And  should  I  therefore  desert  him,  Benvenuta?" 
said  Nadir  with  a  smile. 

She  smiled  also,  and  grasped  both  his  hands.  "  Fare- 
well," said  she,  "farewell,  and  promise  me  one  thing." 

"What  is  it?  speak  !" 

"Do  not  return  to  this  island;  death  awaits  you 
here !" 

"And  if  the  whole  coast  were  beset  by  angels  of 
death,  I  would  return!"  exclaimed  Nadir;  "I  will  re- 
turn! I  shall  not  die  without  having  seen  you  once  more. 
And  if  no  other  happiness  is  in  store  for  me,  may  I  be  per- 
mitted but  to  die  near  you,  and  say  with  my  latest  breath, 
*  I  love  you,  Benvenuta!'  I  follow  the  king  because  the 
ties  of  misfortune  bind  me  to  him,  and  because  you  love 
him.  If,  however,  he  goes  to  meet  his  ruin,  and  his  fate 
seems  to  me  to  be  written  upon  his  brow — my  father, 
my  mother,  and  my  brother  they  have  slain — nothing, 
no  one  upon  the  broad  earth  is  left  me  but  you,  Benve- 
nuta,— you  alone.  My  happiness  or  even  my  misery 
dwells  where  you  dwell.  The  rest  of  the  world  is  a  wil- 
derness. What  is  left  to  one  whom  no  one  loves,  if  he 
no  longer  hopes?  And  I  can  only  hope  near  you  and 
through  you.  Fear  nothing — do  not  start !  All  my 
ardor,  my  desires,  and  my  resentment  against  fate  I  will 
bridle  and  restrain,  and  you  shall  not  be  disturbed  by 
any  sound  that  shall  betray  the  agony  of  my  heart.  I 
will  simply  wait,  wait  by  your  side,  and  hope.  I  shall 
therefore  return,  as  truly  as  the  sun  returns  on  his  daily 
course.  Farewell!  Bid  adieu  to  that  spot  where  I 
kissed  your  feet,  and  that  dearer  one  where  you  be- 
stowed upon  me  a  kiss  which  I  shall  feel  forever.  Fare- 
well!" 


The  Departure.  167 

He  hastened  after  the  procession,  which  had  already 
disappeared  behind  the  village.  Catherine  had  returned 
into  the  house  to  Mattea,  Pascal  Morin  was  letting  his 
horse  trot  slowly  along  with  a  slack  rein  toward  Vesco- 
vato  and  Bastia,  and  all  the  villagers  were  accompanying, 
the  procession  of  the  king.  Benvenuta  stood  alone  in 
the  noonday  sun,  beside  the  deserted  road,  as  motion- 
less as  a  statue. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   RETURN. 

THE  little  land  of  chestnut-trees,  with  the  Golo  val- 
ley and  Vescovato,  its  principal  place,  is  a  paradise  even 
late  in  autumn,  although  it  has  a  melancholy  air  about 
it  which  betrays  its  terrestrial  character,  and  shows  that 
it,  like  everything  earthly,  is  subject  to  vicissitude  and 
change.  Here,  too,  though  somewhat  later  than  even 
on  the  favored  mainland  over  the  water,  death  and  de- 
cay enter,  leaves  fall,  aad  the  wind  moans  mournfully 
through  the  impoverished  boughs  and  shrubs.  Of  the 
harbingers  of  the  storm  which,  as  can  be  descried  from 
here,  ruffle  the  sea  without,  and  cover  it  with  white  bil- 
lows, tossing  them  hither  and  thither,  there  is  indeed  no- 
thing to  be  seen  in  this  protected  nook  of  Vescovato,  sur- 
rounded as  it  is  by  high  mountains  ;  it  may,  however,  be 
one  effect  of  the  boisterous  autumn  gales  without,  that  the 
wind  often  sweeps  like  a  specter's  breath  over  valley  and 
plain,  snatching  up  the  dried  leaves  and  whirling  them 
around  near  the  earth,  and  then  lashing  them  along  the 
ground.  This  seems  like  a  preconcerted  signal  to  the 
belated  migratory  birds,  which,  flying  from  the  continent, 
often  rest  here  for  weeks  together,  to  recruit  their  forces 
for  a  further  journey.  Flocks  of  these  fill  the  air,  irres- 
olutely flying  for  whole  days,  in  wide  circles,  about  the 
beloved  land,  and  mingling  their  cries  and  farewell  sighs 
(168) 


I 

The  Return.  169 

with  the  soft,  plaintive  tone  which  seems  to  pervade,  as 
it  were,  the  whole  atmosphere.  The  breezes,  however, 
have  not  the  autumnal  coolness  and  chilliness  which  is 
usual,  at  this  season,  in  the  north,  but  are  soft  and  mild, 
and  the  aromatic  fragrance  which  distinguishes  Corsica 
above  every  country  in  Europe,  making  the  entire  island 
resemble  a  huge  flower,  recognized  by  its  children  far 
out  at  sea,  in  autumn  grows  more  marked,  and  milder 
than  at  other  seasons  of  the  year.  The  rains  which  fall 
upon  the  high  mountains  with  a  power  and  copiousness 
peculiar  to  a  southern  climate,  swell  the  numberless  na- 
tural streams,  and  give  the  springs  redoubled  wealth, 
and  a  sleepy  murmur  pervades  the  land,  undisturbed  by 
the  bells  of  the  flocks  of  goats  as  they  come  home, 
slowly,  because  unwillingly,  descending  the  mountains 
to  the  plains  below. 

Vescovato,  for  weeks,  resembled  a  festive  ball-room, 
after  the  guests  have  left  it,  or  a  theater  when  the  lights 
have  been  extinguished  and  the  actors  have  disappeared. 
Abandonment  lay  marked  upon  the  village  as  a  presage 
that  the  place  which  had  hitherto  been  the  cradle  of 
Corsican  history  would  be  so  no  longer,  a  presage  which 
has  since  proved  a  reality;  for  history,  following  in  Mu- 
rat's  train,  stretched  her  pinions  for  the  last  time  over 
these  fields,  which  have  so  many  times  been  the  scene  of 
such  great  events.  The  mark  of  desertion  was  espe- 
cially evident  in  the  house  of  Colonna  Ceccaldi,  because 
of  its  pre-eminence  among  the  other  dwellings,  and  be- 
cause, during  every  period  of  great  excitement,  it  had 
been  a  kind  of  central  point  and  military  headquarters, 
in  Corsica. 

Where  formerly  couriers  were  passing  in  and  out,  and 
old  military  heroes,  as  body  guards,  in  brilliant  uni- 


170  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

forms,  filled  vestibule  and  court,  there  was  now  no  one 
to  be  seen.  The  house  was  deserted.  The  aged  Co- 
lonna,  its  patriarch,  as  well  as  that  of  the  whole  place, 
was  in  Bastia,  whither  he  had  been  summoned  to  answer 
for  the  hospitality  which  he  had  shown,  and  for  the 
transactions  which  had  taken  place  beneath  his  roof,  and 
there  he  had  been  detained  in  confinement  for  several 
days.  Serafino  and  other  domestics  had  followed  him, 
and  still  others  had  been  discharged,  for  the  house  had 
become  impoverished.  Franceschetti  had  sacrificed  to 
their  guest  what  personal  property  they  possessed,  and 
part  also  of  their  real  estate;  the  camp,  which  belonged, 
in  a  manner,  to  the  suite  of  their  distinguished  visitor, 
had  consumed  all  their  stores.  Murat  had  enjoyed  roy- 
alty too  long,  and  was  not  so  constituted  by  nature  as 
to  have  an  eye  to  such  household  arrangements  just 
around  him  as  had  no  bearing  on  any  grand  purpose,  or 
to  recognize  that  as  a  sacrifice  which  had  relation  merely 
to  property  and  matters  of  economy  ;  the  sacrifices,  how- 
ever, made  by  the  family  of  Colonna  Ceccaldi  were  too 
remarkable,  and  the  hospitality  exercised  was  too  great, 
for  him  not  to  be  touched  by  it,  and  led  by  gratitude  to 
a  just  appreciation  of  what  they  had  done  for  him. 
Franceschetti  himself  relates,  in  his  memoirs,  that  the 
king,  even  during  his  stay  at  Vescovato,  urged  him  to 
accept  the  remnants  of  his  royal  state,  a  diamond  epau- 
lette of  immense  value,  which  was,  of  course,  sufficient 
to  compensate  the  family  of  Colonna  Ceccaldi  for  their 
expenditures.  Franceschetti,  however,  was  Murat's 
treasurer,  and  took  charge  of  such  of  the  king's  prop- 
erty as,  during  his  stay  in  Corsica,  came  in,  by  degrees, 
from  France  and  Italy,  where  it  had  been  scattered  and 
concealed :  the  general  availed  himself  of  this  office  to 


The  Return,  171 

quietly  add  this  epaulette  to  the  rest,  and  with  the  sum, 
defray  the  expense  of  the  expedition  to  Naples. 

If,  however,  the  two  forsaken  women,  Catherine  and 
her  daughter,  were  seated  silently  at  work  in  the  large 
hall,  more  sad  than  the  November  day  without,  as  if 
weighed  down  beneath  an  invisible  burden,  it  was  cer- 
tainly not  on  account  of  their  reduced  circumstances. 
Of  this,  both  of  them  thought  little ;  with  the  same  in- 
difference with  which  they  had  once  renounced  the 
splendor  of  the  Neapolitan  court  and  voluntarily 
shunned  it,  they  could  both  have  supported  every  de- 
privation, and  even  want  itself.  They  might  have  been 
much  further  impoverished,  without  feeling  any  change 
in  their  external  circumstances.  Accustomed  to  a  patri- 
archal simplicity  and  manner  of  life,  to  which  they  both 
adhered  with  Corsican  pride,  their  wants  were  not  much 
greater  than  those  of  the  poorest  Corsican  women,  and 
of  a  kind  that  their  means,  even  with  a  further  diminu- 
tion, would  have  supplied.  It  was  something  of  greater 
moment  which  was  weighing  upon  them — the  fatality 
which  had  brought  them  across  the  path  of  a  child  of 
destiny,  and  made  them  actors  in  the  scenes  of  history. 
By  this  fatality,  the  father  of  the  family  had  been  torn 
away,  and  the  man  who  had  passed  some  time  beneath 
their  roof,  and  given  a  history  to  their  house  and  its 
occupants,  and  who  had  come  like  fate  itself,  bringing 
with  him  a  thousand  links  connected  with  the  great  ques- 
tion of  the  world — the  man  who  was  more  lovable  in 
misfortune  than  in  all  the  splendor  of  royalty,  and  to 
whom  they  were  forever  bound  by  the  holy  ties  of  deeds 
of  love  and  by  the  performance  of  the  highest  duties — 
where  was  this  man,  this  meteor  ? 

Corsica  had  long  since  heard  how  this  meteor  had  dis- 


172  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

appeared,  and  what  had  been  the  fate  of  Murat.  Why 
should  not  a  cloud  be  resting  over  the  house  of  Colonna 
Ceccaldi  and  on  Maria  Benvenuta's  brow — a  cloud  as 
dark  as  a  veil  of  mourning  ? 

It-did  not  tend  to  clear  and  enliven  the  family  atmos- 
phere, when  Mattea  made  her  appearance  from  time  to 
time,  to  rest  for  a  few  hours  or  pass  half  the  night,  after 
she  had  spent  several  days,  without  resting,  hunting 
through  the  Macchias  like  a  bloodhound,  in  search  of 
the  hiding-place  of  Bartolomeo,  her  son's  murderer. 
Her  features  assumed,  from  day  to  day,  a  wilder  appear- 
ance. She  came  silently  and  went  silently;  by  signs 
only  did  she  signify  to  Benvenuta,  when  she  chanced  to 
come  near  her,  her  expectation  of  soon  detecting  Barto- 
lomeo, or  her  anger  at  the  disappointment  of  her  hopes. 
She  spoke  but  seldom,  and  only  when  about  to  start  upon 
some  new  expedition,  and  then  she  would  sing  to  herself 
some  passage  from  the  vocero  which  she  had  sung  over  her 
son — one  of  the  most  fearful  songs  of  revenge  which  has 
ever  burst  from  the  heart  of  a  Corsican  mother,  and 
which,  even  then,  but  a  few  weeks  after  Matteo's  death, 
resounded  through  the  whole  island,  and  is  not  forgotten 
to  this  day,  nor  ever  will  be  as  long  as  vengeance  for  a 
brother's  blood  is  considered  the  most  sacred  duty  of  the 
Corsican. 

Benvenuta  sat  in  the  window-seat,  buried  in  medita- 
tion, often  dropping  her  work  and  casting  her  eyes,  from 
time  to  time,  across  the  square  of  Vescovato,  toward  the 
road  to  Bastia,  as  if  looking  for  some  arrival.  She  had 
been  for  days  expecting  a  reliable  messenger  with  intel- 
ligence as  to  her  father's  fate  and  that  of  the  king, 
although  this  was  already  perfectly  well  known  to  the 
whole  island  and  to  herself  also.  But  who  is  ready  to  be- 


The  Return.  173 

lieve  mere  rumor  and  common  report,  when  those  whom 
we  love  are  interested  ?  She  felt  certain  that  some  one 
would  come  to  inform  her  and  her  mother  in  person,  and 
she  had  a  presentiment  that  it  would  be  Nadir  who  would 
do  so.  She  had  been  expecting  him  for  days.  He  had, 
indeed,  himself  said  that  he  would  return  to  Corsica, 
even  though  legions  of  death-angels  awaited  him  upon 
the  shore.  When,  therefore,  he  was  suddenly  seen 
coming  across  the  square,  she  rose  without  any  surprise, 
although  a  cold  shudder  passed  over  her,  and  said  to  her 
mother,  with  composure : 

"  Nadir  is  coming  !" 

With  a  hasty  step  she  advanced  to  meet  him,  but 
paused  upon  the  threshold  of  the  house,  as  if  paralyzed. 
Nadir  also  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  court-yard,  as  if 
rooted  to  the  spot.  Strange  and  sad  emotion  moved  these 
hearts,  which  had  voluntarily  allied  themselves  to  the  des- 
tiny of  a  human  being — a  destiny  winch  had  had  such 
a  mournful  fulfillment.  They  once  more  met  as  if  after 
funeral  rites,  and  their  hearts  partook  of  the  sadness  of 
the  dying  face  of  nature  without.  With  bowed  head,  Na- 
dir at  last  mounted  the  steps  toward  her,  and  seized  both 
her  hands,  which  she  extended  toward  him.  The  hero- 
ine, the  strong-minded  woman,  stood  before  him  like 
any  weak  girl,  plunged  in  grief,  and  he  sighed  at  this 
sight  as  well  as  at  the  thought  of  the  emotions  which, 
while  both  drawing  her  to  him  and  separating  her  from 
him,  had  been  the  cause  of  this  change.  He  followed 
her  silently  into  the  room,  where  her  mother  also  received 
him  in  silence,  with  an  eloquent  pressure  of  the  hand. 
She  was  the  first,  however,  to  be  capable  of  utterance. 

"  What  intelligence  do  you  bring  from  my  husband  ?" 
she  asked,  with  a  quivering  voice. 

16 


174  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

"He  is  a  prisoner  at  Caserta."  said  Nadir,  "as  you 
already  know,  but  he  will  soon  be  set  at  liberty,  and 
will  return  to  you.  I  would  not  leave  Italy  until  I  had 
ascertained  this  for  a  certainty,  that  I  might  bring  you 
the  consoling  intelligence.  The  Bourbon  government 
did  not  dare  to  carry  their  prosecution  further,  for  the 
partisans  of  Murat  are  still  too  strong.  I  received  the 
news  at  Naples,  in  the  name  of  the  Carbonari,  who  are 
acquainted  with  all  the  secrets  of  the  government." 

"Heaven  be  praised!"  exclaimed  Catherine,  rever- 
ently clasping  her  hands. 

Nadir  took  a  seat  by  the  ladies,  evidently  with  a  view 
of  giving  them  an  account  of  the  events  of  the  last  few 
unhappy  weeks.  A  long  time,  however,  elapsed  before 
they  could  summon  up  courage  to  request  him  to  do  so,  or 
he  the  resolution  to  commence,  unasked.  All  three  felt 
the  necessity  of  collecting  themselves  and  of  firmly  re- 
solving to  pass  through  once  more,  in  imagination  and 
with  composure,  the  sad  occurrences  of  the  last  few  weeks. 

"Speak!  Commence  your  narration!"  Benvenuta  at 
last  said. 

Nadir  drew  a  long  breath  and  began : 

"You  know  how  the  people  streamed  after  us  all  the 
way  to  Ajaccio,  and  how  the  king  entered  that  town  like 
a  triumphant  conqueror,  or  like  the  sovereign  of  the 
country.  He  needed  to  speak  but  a  single  word,  and 
the  Corsicans  would  have  hailed  him  as  their  king,  and 
taken  up  arms  against  France.  You  know,  too,  that  it 
was  the  family  of  the  emperor  alone  who  showed  them- 
selves hostile  toward  him,  and  even  violated  the  claims 
of  hospitality.  Murat  was  always  a  stranger  in  that 
cold-hearted  and  calculating  family.  The  more  warmly, 
therefore,  was  he  received  by  the  inhabitants  and  gam- 


The  Return.  175 

son  of  Ajaccio,  and  everywhere  was  heard  the  cry  <  Long 
live  the  king !'  even  on  the  ramparts  of  the  citadel.  But 
the  king  was  firmly  resolved  not  to  disturb  the  tranquillity 
of  this  island,  where  he  had  met  with  so  much  affection 
and  magnanimity.  The  adherents  of  the  Bourbons  had 
not  succeeded  in  interfering  with  the  equipment  of  the 
ships  and  getting  possession  of  them.  They  were  ready 
to  sail,  and  although  but  frail  barks,  they  seemed  to  the 
dauntless  man,  a  safe  bridge  to  his  kingdom  across  the 
sea.  We  started.  Not  until  we  had  got  far  out  at 
sea  and  were  beyond  the  reach  of  artillery,  did  the  com- 
mandant of  the  garrison  of  the  citadel  send  after  us  a  few 
harmless  shots ;  they  sounded  like  a  grand  salute.  The 
king  had  magnanimously  left  behind  him  in  Ajaccio,  the 
large  number  of  Corsicans  who  had  joined  him,  that  he 
might  not  involve  them  in  his  uncertain  fate ;  two  hundred 
and  fifty  men  only,  who  had  previously  served  under  him, 
formed  the  entire  armament  of  the  six  small  barks.  The 
insignificance  of  this  number  was  the  less  calculated 
to  dampen  the  ardor  of  the  king,  as  everything  that 
had  taken  place  at  Ajaccio  had  only  contributed  to  in- 
crease it. 

"One  thing  alone  exercised  a  depressing  influence 
upon  the  king's  friends.  The  two  brothers,  Ignatius  and 
Simon  Carabelli,  had  been  seen  in  Ajaccio,  and  General 
Ottavij,  who  had  voluntarily  come  and  taken  an  oath  of 
fidelity  to  his  Majesty,  again  disappeared,  after  having 
had  an  interview  with  the  two  brothers.  It  was  known 
that  they  had  also  had  private  conversation  with  other 
officers  in  the  king's  retinue.  A  search  was  made  for 
them,  but  they  had  disappeared,  having  been  well  se- 
creted by  the  servants  of  Louis  XVIII.  When  the  king 
learned  of  our  efforts  to  take  them,  he  ordered  that  they 


176  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

should  be  left  to  their  wretched  fate;  not  a  drop  of  hlood 
should  be  shed  or  the  slightest  deed  of  violence  com- 
mitted on  his  account  in  Corsica.  A  feeling  of  restraint 
pervaded  our  barks;  since  the  Carabelli  had  made  their 
appearance,  no  one  felt  any  longer  sure  of  his  neighbor, 
and  every  one  feared  that  we  had  treachery  on  board. 

"This  feeling  was  meanwhile  upon  the  increase,  when 
one  of  the  traitors  unexpectedly  met  his  fate.  We  had 
just  left  the  straits  of  Bonifacio,  when  a  barge  sailed  by 
us,  carrying  the  French  flag.  Notwithstanding  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  Langlade  recognized  it  as  one  of 
the  ships  which  had  been  equipped  at  Bastia  for  the  king, 
and  which  had  been  confiscated  by  the  French.  Form- 
ing a  hasty  resolution,  and  without  previously  asking  the 
king's  permission,  Langlade,  who  commanded  one  of  the 
barks,  gave  chase,  got  to  windward  of  the  bark,  and 
boarded  her,  to  retake,  as  he  said,  the  property  of  the 
king.  The  conquest,  however,  was  greater  than  he  him- 
,  self  imagined.  On  board  this  bark  was  found  Ignatius 
Carabelli,  and  from  the  statement  of  the  crew,  it  trans- 
pired that  she  was  intending  to  hasten  and  seek  to  reach 
Naples  before  us.  Before  any  one  knew  it,  the  Corsi- 
cans  who  had  accompanied  Langlade,  had  hung  Cara- 
belli to  the  mast  of  his  own  ship.  Langlade  obliged  the 
men  on  board  the  bark  to  follow  him  to  his  own  vessel, 
and,  as  we  were  without  any  crew  to  man  it,  he  set  the 
craft  adrift,  and  so  it  drifted  away,  a  floating  gallows. 
At  sunrise  we  saw  her  behind  us  with  the  frightful  deco- 
ration on  her  mast." 

Benvenuta  rose,  brought  her  clinched  fist  down  upon 
the  table,  and  said,  with  an  angry  look  : 

"Thus  may  all  treachery  end  !  May  no  mariner  dare 
to  conduct  the  accursed  ship  into  port ;  may  sea  and 


The  Return.  177 

tempest  spare  it,  and  may  God  permit  it  to  drift  eter- 
nally from  shore  to  shore,  a  warning  to  all  traitors  arid 
a  monument  of  righteous  judgment!" 

"Benvenuta!"  exclaimed  her  mother,  shocked,  and 
clasped  her  hands,  "  is  that  maidenly  ?" 

But  Nadir  gazed  upon  her  with  admiration,  as  she 
thus  stood,  like  an  awful  statue,  moved  by  passion,  and 
it  was  that  moment  of  energy,  anger,  and  noble  indigna- 
tion which  riveted  his  heart  to  her.  The  flame  which, 
during  the  events  of  the  past  few  weeks,  had  lain  hidden, 
as  though  beneath  the  ruins  of  a  fallen  building,  burst 
forth  anew,  and  instinctively  he  dropped  his  head  upon 
his  hands,  to  conceal  the  fire  glowing  in  his  eyes. 

But  Benvenuta  laid  her  hands  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
divining  his  feelings,  said  in  a  tremulous  voice : 

" Forget  yourself!  Do  not  think  of  yourself — pro- 
ceed !" 

Nadir  raised  his  head  and  tried  to  obey  her ;  but  he 
could  not  utter  a  syllable.  An  expression  of  deep  gen- 
tleness suddenly  passed  over  Benvenuta's  countenance, 
and  she  anxiously  said  in  warning : 

"Take  care,  Nadir!  The  Carabelli  have  many  kins- 
men in  Corsica — the  large  family  of  the  Stefani.  They 
might  seek  to  revenge  upon  you  Carabelli's  ignominious 
death,  as  being  a  participator  in  the  expedition." 

Nadir  smiled.  Her  solicitude  did  him  good,  and  he 
was  about  again  commencing  his  narration,  when  Ben- 
venuta interrupted  him  and  hastily  demanded:  "Is  your 
arrival  known  in  Bastia?" 

"I  had  hardly  landed,"  replied  Nadir,  "when  hun- 
dreds pressed  around  me,  inquiring  the  particulars  of 
the  events  which  had  taken  place  at  Naples." 

"Then  Galvani,  too,  knows  that  you  have  returned," 
16* 


178  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

exclaimed  Benvenuta.  "  You  must  leave,  and  soon. 
Galvani  will  not  rest  satisfied  with  his  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  kill  you." 

Nadir  gave  a  shrug  of  indifference,  and  said :  "  Let 
me  continue  my  account. 

"Favorable  winds  bore  our  little  fleet  toward  the 
Italian  coast,  and  everything  would  have  gone  on  pleas- 
antly on  board,  had  we  known  for  a  perfect  certainty 
whither  we  were  sailing.  But  the  king  himself  had  not 
fully  resolved  whether  we  should  sail  around  Italy,  into 
the  Adriatic,  toward  Austria  and  his  family,  or  take  a 
direct  course  to  his  kingdom.  I  felt  sure  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  resist  the  sight  of  the  Neapolitan  coast. 

44  After  the  greater  part  of  the  voyage  had  been  per- 
formed, we  were  overtaken  by  a  violent  storm ;  a  night 
of  excessive  darkness  came  on  ;  one  of  the  barks  was 
violently  separated  from  us  and  blown  far  into  the  dis- 
tance, while  the  others  intentionally  left  our  vicinity,  that 
we  might  not  be  dashed  together,  and  might  thus  avoid 
the  destruction  of  us  all.  When  the  sun  again  rose,  we 
were  alone  ;  but,  bright  and  smiling,  and  fatally  alluring, 
the  coast  of  Calabria  lay  before  us.  When  the  king 
came  upon  deck,  he  could  not  see  our  abandoned  condi- 
tion— he  could  not  see  that  our  little  vessel  was  alone 
and  but  frail,  nor  how  small  was  the  number  of  faithful 
friends  who  yet  surrounded  him ;  he  only  saw  the  coast 
of  his  kingdom,  and  he  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  ves- 
sel toward  it,  as  though  he  would  spring  into  the  sea  and 
swim  to  its  shores.  It  required  a  heroic  courage,  added 
to  the  loftiest  fidelity,  to  admonish  him,  in  such  a  moment 
of  happiness,  of  the  impotence  of  his  rapture,  and  to 
once  more  remind  and  warn  him  of  the  dangers  which 
awaited  him  on  that  alluring  coast.  Your  husband. 


The  Return.  179 

Catherine — your  father,  Benvenuta,  possessed  this  cou- 
rage and  fidelity.  He  aroused  Murat  from  his  happy 
dream,  he  showed  him  his  desperate  weakness,  and  told 
him  frankly,  with  all  the  cruelty  of  affection,  that  if  he 
set  foot  on  Neapolitan  soil,  he  went  to  meet  his  ruin,  and 
that  he  was  in  danger  of  closing  his  heroic  career  as  an 
adventurer. 

"  This  last  word  alone,  made  any  impression  upon 
Murat. 

"  '  You  are  so  very  much  my  friend/  he  replied,  6  and 
you  show  it  so  plainly,  Franceschetti,  that  I  feel  con- 
strained to  justify  myself  to  you,  and  to  show  you,  at 
least,  that  I  have  not  undertaken  this  expedition  like  an 
adventurer,  but  like  a  statesman  and  military  commander. 
It  was  my  intention  to  land  in  the  vicinity  of  Salerno, 
take  possession  of  the  town,  and  draw  about  me  the  divi- 
sions of  my  army  which  are  now  'reorganized  there. 
They  would  follow  me  with  delight ;  of  that,  be  sure,  for 
I  know  it.  With  these  I  should  have  marched  without 
delay  upon  Avellino,  everywhere  called  around  me  the 
soldiers  and  people,  as  well  as  my  adherents  who  are  ex- 
pecting me,  swept  over  the  greater  part  of  the  province, 
and,  by  rapid  movements,  got  a  three  days'  start  of  the 
tardy  Austrians,  and  thus  made  my  appearance  before 
the  capital,  where,  meanwhile,  people,  king,  and  govern- 
ment would  have  been  trembling  in  fear  or  hope,  as  each 
one's  different  feelings  dictated/ 

"'But  now  we  cannot  land  near  Salerno?'  said 
Franceschetti. 

"  '  My  plan,'  replied  Murat,  *  would  indeed  be  a  mere 
whim  and  the  idle  dream  of  an  adventurer,  if  it  could  be 
thwarted  by  any  gale  that  chanced  to  blow.  Its  whole 
object  is  the  reconquest  of  my  kingdom — the  emancipa- 


180  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

tion  of  a  people  by  the  aid  of  the  best  and  noblest 
powers  it  can  offer.  These  are  the  Carbonari,  who  are 
looking  for  me.  What  should  I  ever  gain  during  a  life- 
time if,  mindful  of  my  own  safety,  I,  with  perfect  indif- 
ference, sailed  by  the  shores  of  a  land  of  which  I  was 
king,  and  which  wished  me  back — if  I  passed  by  like  a 
stranger  a  stranger's  house,  or,  like  a  prodigal  son,  the 
father's  roof?  What  my  landing  under  the  present  cir- 
cumstances lacks  in  system  and  prudence,  heroic  bravery 
must  supply.  And  is  not  this  coast  the  coast  of  Cala- 
bria, the  bravest  province  of  the  kingdom — a  small  nation 
which  has  often  fought  against  mighty  powers  with 
glory  ?  Is  there  a  land  upon  the  earth  which  so  closely 
resembles  Corsica  as  Calabria  ?  And  with  the  aid  of  the 
Corsicans,  could  I  not  cope  with  the  world  ?  No  !  The 
remembrance  of  Corsica  gives  me  the  assurance  that 
from  Calabria  I  can  conquer  and  free  the  whole  king- 
dom, and  perhaps  all  Italy.' 

"'  God  bless  you,  Sire,  if  you  are  successful,'  replied 
Franceschetti  with  devotion;  'to  you  a  noble  people 
would  owe  their  greatness,  Europe  would  be  one  great 
nation  richer,  liberty  and  culture  would  have  one  more 
pillar,  and  the  world  would  be  compelled  to  leave  the 
evil  course  which,  led  by  the  Holy  Alliance,  it  has  pur- 
sued, a  course  which  would  sink  it  into  barbarism. 
Chance,  however,  Fortune's  bastard  brother,  often 
crosses  the  noblest  plans,  and  frequently  throws  him- 
self, like  a  highwayman,  athwart  the  course  of  a  grand 
idea,  and  kills  its  servants  and  priests.  What  if  you 
fail — if  you  fall  before  you  can  arm  yourself — if  you 
are  forced  to  succumb  to  the  enemy?  There  are  no 
enemies  more  cruel  than  the  Bourbons !' 

"  Murat  laughed. 


The  Return.  181 

" '  Death  always  spares  me  in  battle.  How  should  it 
not  ?  Have  not  my  enemies  voluntarily  done  so  ?  The 
Emperor  Alexander  forbade  his  troops  to  fire  upon  me, — 
me,  the  hero  of  Borodino.  If  fortune  deserts  me,  I  shall 
at  the  most  bat  be  taken  a  prisoner,  but  I  shall  not,  at 
least,  be  one  of  my  own  free  will,  as  I  should  have  been 
had  I  accepted  the  Austrian  passport.  More  rigorous 
measures  would  be  not  only  unjust,  but  also  a  violation 
of  the  laws  of  nations.  Bonaparte  had  abdicated  and 
renounced  the  throne  of  France  ;  he  returned  to  ascend 
it  again  by  the  same  means  which  I  am  to  employ.  He 
was  defeated  at  Waterloo,  and  became  a  prisoner.  / 
have  not  abdicated ;  I  have  a  right  to  obtain  possession 
of  my  kingdom  once  more.  If  I  fall  into  the  hands  of 
my  enemies,  I  shall  be  simply  a  prisoner  of  war,  and  a 
St.  Helena  would  be  far  too  great  a  punishment  for  me. 
But,'  added  he  with  a  smile,  'rest  easy,  my  friend;  our 
St.  Helena  is  called  Naples.' 

"While  the  king  was  speaking,  we  found  ourselves  in 
the  Gulf  of  Euphemia.  Without  awaiting  Franceschetti's 
further  reply,  he  gave  orders  to  make  for  Pizzo,  whose 
castle  was  beckoning  in  the  distance.  A  favorable  wind 
unfortunately  filled  our  sails  and  drove  us  toward  this 
harbor  of  ruin.  Upon  the  way  we  passed  close  by  one 
of  our  ships,  commanded  by  Barbara,  formerly  the  Mal- 
tese corsair.  To  our  great  astonishment,  one  of  our  men 
recognized  Simon  Carabelli  on  board.  He  might,  how- 
ever, be  a  prisoner.  Barbara,  it  was  possible,  had  been 
dashed  against  him  during  the  stormy  night,  and  might 
have  taken  him  prisoner,  as  Langlade  did  his  brother. 
We  were  soon  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  this  was  not 
the  case,  for  when  the  king  called  to  him  to  follow  him 
to  Pizzo,  Barbara  paid  so  little  heed  that  at  that  very 


182  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

moment  he  turned  his  ship  about  and  evidently  tried  to 
sail  away  from  us  as  rapidly  as  possible.  Simon  Cara- 
belli  laughed  scornfully  after  us,  and  took  his  place  at 
the  helm,  as  if  to  signify  to  us  that  the  fate  of  the  ves- 
sel was  in  his  hands.  The  king  turned  away  with  con- 
tempt, and  once  more  ordered,  in  a  powerful  voice,  as 
before:  'To  Pizzo !'  and  then  said  to  Franceschetti: 
'  Do  you  see  what  kind  of  people  the  accomplices  of  the 
Bourbons  are,  and  what  sort  of  means  they  employ! 
Traitors  and  treachery !  I  must  make  the  attempt,  I 
must  see  Naples  and  my  people  once  more  !  I  must  re- 
lieve those  whose  destiny  was  once  intrusted  to  me,  from 
their  cruelty  and  malice.  The  government  will  persecute 
those  who  once  gave  me  their  support  when  I  was  seek- 
ing to  elevate  and  improve  the  condition  of  the  country. 
The  thought  that  so  many  and  such  excellent  men  must 
suffer  on  account  of  the  services  which"  they  have  ren- 
dered me,  leaves  me  no  rest ;  the  fate  of  my  friends  ren- 
ders me  miserable.  I  must,  I  can  do  nothing  else  !  On 
to  Pizzo!' 

"  It  was  Sunday.  The  bells  were  ringing  as  we  ran 
into  the  little  harbor  of  Pizzo.  The  king  was  standing 
upon  the  prow  of  the  ship;  it  touched  the  land " 

"  Stop !  Silence!"  exclaimed  Benvenuta,  interrupting 
the  narrator  and  pressing  her  hand  over  her  heart. 
"But  no,  proceed,  my  friend;  but  quickly,  quickly;  do 
not  let  me  suffer  as  he  did !" 

"I  will,"  replied  Nadir,  "  for  neither  do  I  wish  to  live 
over  again,  in  imagination,  these  terrible  events  in  all 
their  details. 

"  We  pressed  to  the  ship's  side,  but  Murat  cried  out  to 
us:  'It  belongs  to  me  to  be  the  first  to  land,'  and  so 
saying,  he  sprang  ashore.  We  followed  him,  thirty  in 


The  Return.  183 

number,  and  with  flying  steps  hastened  toward  the  great 
square  before  the  castle. 

u  What  now  ensued  seemed  like  a  horrible  dream  from 
its  beginning  to  its  close;  indescribable  events  without 
end  were  crowded  together  in  a  narrow  compass  ;  pleas- 
ant and  frightful  forms  flitted  incoherently  back  and 
forth  before  the  mind ;  years  and  worlds  of  feeling  lay 
wrapped  within  the  occurrences  of  a  single  day,  and 
even  of  a  single  hour.  'God  save  King  Joachim!'  we 
shouted,  as  if  in  a  dream ;  and  the  body  of  men  upon 
the  square  dreamily  gazed  at  us,  and  a  few,  only,  repeated 
the  cry ;  and,  like  a  phantom  which  brings  cold  sweat 
on  the  sleeper's  brow,  Trentacapelli  suddenly  came  out 
from  the  throng,  Trentacapelli,  the  leader  of  that  Bour- 
bon band  of  robbers  who,  during  the  reign  of  Murat, 
barbarously  defended,  among  the  mountains  and  ravines, 
the  divine  right  of  Ferdinand,  the  banished  king.  This 
cruel  murderer  of  women  and  children  wore  the  uniform 
of  an  officer  of  high  rank,  and  to  him  Ferdinand  had 
intrusted  the  duty  of  watching  the  coast.  *  Have  the 
guests  who  have  been  announced,  arrived?'  he  cried  with 
a  sneering  laugh,  and  so  distorted  his  countenance  that 
I  felt  as  though  I  were  wrestling  with  a  horrid  night- 
mare. He  stood  there  like  an  evil  spirit,  and  his  pres- 
ence exercised  a  benumbing  influence  over  tfte  men, 
among  whom  some  solitary  individuals,  indeed,  did  give 
us  a  friendly  smile,  and  seemed  ready  to  join  in  the  cry: 
'  God  save  King  Joachim  Murat !'  but  they  were  paralyzed 
by  Trentacapelli  as  if  by  a  frightful  apparition.  Thus 
also  was  it  with  the  small  band  of  soldiers  who  still  wore 
Murat's  uniform,  and  who  had  just  been  performing  mil- 
itary evolutions  upon  the  square.  The  king  was  com- 
pletely taken  captive  by  the  sight  of  these  men,  and  he 


184  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

no  longer  saw  Trentacapelli  nor  the  threatening,  trem- 
bling people — he  had  eyes  for  his  soldiers  alone.  Were 
they  not  his  troops  ?  Did  they  not  wear  his  uniform  ? 
He  felt  as  though  he  stood  at  their  head,  and  they  obeyed 
only  his  word  of  command.  And  indeed  a  friendly  shout 
at  last  arose  from  a  few  of  the  men,  which  served  to  in- 
crease his  delusion. 

"  Now,  however,  a  handsome  young  man  stepped  out 
from  the  crowd  near  Trentacapelli,  like  a  good  angel  be- 
side a  bad  one,  and  said  to  the  king  in  an  earnest  tone : 
4  Here,  Sire,  you  are  lost ;  hasten  to  the  Monteleone, 
where  you  have  many  friends.  Here  you  have  many 
enemies.  Hasten,  I  will  be  your  guide  I' 

"So  saying,  the  young  man  ran  forward,  and  we  all, 
including  the  king,  followed  him,  for  his  truth  and  fi- 
delity were  expressed  in  his  voice.  We  ran  up  the  road 
which  leads  from  Pizzo  up  the  mountain  toward  Monte- 
leone ;  but  the  king  often  stopped  and  called  to  the  sol- 
diers, for  it  seemed  to  pain  him  to  part  from  them.  These, 
too,  soon  came  after  us,  but  through  by-roads,  and  fol- 
lowed by  the  peasantry,  who  had  hastily  armed  them- 
selves. 

"  'Look,  they  are  coming  !'  exultantly  exclaimed  the 
king,  '  and  the  people  are  joining  them!' 

"  'Trentacapelli  is  at  their  head!'  exclaimed  Frances- 
chetti;  'they  come  as  enemies  !' 

"  '  They  are  taking  the  by-roads  to  cut  us  off  from 
Monteleone !'  exclaimed  the  young  man. 

uThe  king,  however,  did  not  hear  these  warnings,  but 
kept  constantly  stopping,  in  order  to  join  his  faithful 
subjects.  Valuable  time  was  thus  lost,  and  we  soon  saw 
the  soldiers  and  peasantry  on  the  mountain  above  us, 
where  they  obstructed  the  highway  as  well  as  the  by- 


The  Return.  185 

roads  leading  to  Monteleone.  Our  men  rushed  toward 
them,  and  drew  their  weapons,  to  drive  them  back  by 
force,  but  the  king  called  to  them  in  a  tone  of  command, 
forbidding  to  make  use  of  them.  He  himself,  however, 
left  the  highway,  and  went  aside  to  the  people  to  speak 
to  them,  but  these,  to  whom  he  sought  to  speak  words 
of  affection,  instantly  surrounded  him,  for  Trentacapelli 
led  them  on.  Franceschetti,  however,  rushed  forward, 
protected  the  king  with  his  own  body,  and  threatened  to 
shoot  Trentacapelli.  The  latter  drew  back,  and  his  gang 
fell  upon  Franceschetti,  who  engaged  them  in  combat. 
I  tore  the  king  away  from  the  throng,  and  he  rejoined 
his  troops,  and  we  were  soon  followed  by  the  brave  gen- 
eral who  had  come  to  our  relief,  and  had  finally  extri- 
cated himself.  He  advised  the  king  to  attack  the  force 
from  Pizzo,  destroy  it,  and  thus  make  our  way  to  Mon- 
teleone. The  king  replied :  '  My  landing  shall  not  be 
the  means  of  drawing  one  drop  of  Neapolitan  blood !' 
These  noble  words  cost  him  his  life.  Shots  were  even 
then  falling  on  all  sides  ;  we  were  already  shut  in,  and 
the  multitude  threw  themselves  upon  the  king  to  make 
him  a  prisoner.  We  crowded  around  him,  and  tore  him 
from  the  numberless  hands  which  had  seized  him,  and 
seeing  it  no  longer  possible  to  reach  Monteleone,  we 
hastened  down  again  toward  Pizzo,  while  the  soldiers, 
fighting  bravely  and  falling  slowly  back,  covered  our  re- 
treat. The  young  man,  who  had  shown  himself  a  guar- 
dian angel,  had  disappeared,  and  perhaps  had  fallen. 
Everything  gave  way  and  scattered  before  us,  and  we  suc- 
ceeded in  reaching  the  sea-coast. 

"  But  our  ship  had  floated  out  to  sea !     A  bark  lay 
upon  the  strand,  and  we  took  possession  of  it  in  order 

n 


186  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

to  shove  it  into  the  water,  and  so  escape  to  the 
ship.  But  in  vain.  Out  of  breath,  and  many  of  us  bleed- 
ing from  severe  wounds,  we  endeavored,  but  without  suc- 
cess, to  get  the  bark,  which  was  to  rescue  us,  afloat.  We 
pulled,  we  tugged  at  the  sides  and  chains  in  despera- 
tion, there  it  lay  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  the  crowd, 
meanwhile,  had  time  to  surround  us  and  cut  us  down 
while  all  our  efforts  were  spent  upon  the  bark.  Frances- 
chetti  was  wounded,  Pernice  and  Giovannini  died  a  hero's 
death,  Lanefranchi  and  Biciani  followed  them,  and  others, 
who  had  withstood  death  in  battles  without  number,  now 
fell  in  combat  near  the  wretched  bark.  At  the  same 
time  the  multitude  came  rushing  along,  bringing  with 
them,  as  prisoners,  the  soldiers  who  had  covered  our  re- 
treat and  had  been  overpowered  by  superior  numbers, 
and  who  now,  disarmed  and  bleeding  from  numerous 
wounds,  appeared  upon  the  square. 

"  'My  children,'  exclaimed  the  king,  overcome  by  the 
sight,  'cease  the  fruitless  struggle!'  and  handing  his 
sword  to  the  enemy,  he  continued:  'Men  of  Pizzo,  take 
this  sword  which  has  fought  with  glory  for  your  native 
land,  and  which  would  yet  win  you  liberty;  take  it,  but 
spare  the  lives  of  my  faithful  followers!' 

"It  was  done." 

Nadir  paused,  overcome  by  the  recollection  of  what 
he  had  witnessed.  He  gazed  with  admiration  at  the 
two  ladies,  who  listened  in  silence  to  the  account  of  the 
deeds  of  heroism  of  their  beloved  father  and  husband, 
and  of  the  wounds  which  he  had  received.  A  silent  tear 
coursed  down  Catherine's  cheek,  while  Benvenuta  held 
and  pressed  her  hand. 

"Do  not  weep,  noble  woman,"  pursued  Nadir,  after  a 
short  pause,  "for  I  have  not  yet  told  you  of  all  the  heroic 


The  Return.  187 

deeds  of  your  husband.  You  should  feel  so  proud,  that 
tears  can  claim  no  right  in  your  heart. 

"We  were  taken  to  prison.  Trentacapelli's  band 
scoffed  at  us  on  our  way,  beating  those  who  were 
wounded.  The  king,  sinking  beneath  the  fatigues  of  the 
hour,  drew  himself  along  like  a  dying  man.  Frances- 
chetti  went  before  us,  bleeding  from  his  wounds,  weak 
and  pale,  but  erect  and  haughty,  and  constantly  looking 
back  to  the  king.  One  of  the  furious  men  then  fell  upon 
Murat,  swinging  his  axe  in  the  air.  'Stop!'  exclaimed 
Franceschetti  with  the  last  remnant  of  his  strength,  'I 
am  the  king !  The  general  who  follows  me  is  innocent ! 
Spare  his  life!'  And  immediately  the  axe  glittered 
above  his  head,  ready  to  dash  him  to  pieces.  The  peo- 
ple, however,  who  were  around  Franceschetti,  and  who 
had  until  now  suffered  him  to  be  abused,  touched  by  his 
magnanimity,  arrested  the  axe  of  the  murderer,  and  the 
king,  Franceschetti,  and  the  rest  reached  the  prison 
without  losing  their  lives. 

"  Trentacapelli  followed  us,  fell  upon  the  king  like  a 
robber,  and  plundered  him  of  what  valuables  he  had 
left. 

"There  in  the  darkness  we  silently  sat,  or  lay  down 
around  the  king,  our  wounds  still  bleeding.  Shortly 
after,  however,  threatening  cries,  curses  and  impreca- 
tions again  burst  upon  us,  and  these  were  followed  by  a 
furious  crowd,  who,  like  actors  upon  the  stage,  swung 
axes,  swords,  and  daggers,  above  our  heads  or  pointed 
them  at  our  bosoms.  Not  until  toward  evening  did  a 
captain,  a  Greek,  with  forty  soldiers,  take  possession  of 
the  prison  and  deliver  us  from  Trentacapelli  and  his 
band.  Oh!  the  sad  night  that  followed  that  fatal  day!" 

Nadir  was  here  interrupted  by  a  strange  cry,  which 


188  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

came  bursting  from  the  court-yard  in  a  fierce  and  heart- 
rending tone,  and  yet  one  of  triumph,  like  a  shout  of 
joy  and  at  the  same  time  like  the  most  horrible  battle- 
cry.  He  and  the  two  ladies  rose  from  their  seats  and 
looked  expectantly  toward  the  door,  which  sprang  open 
as  if  forced  by  a  blow  from  without,  and  there  in  the 
twilight,  which  had  in  the  mean  time  fallen,  stood  Mattea 
upon  the  threshold,  laughing.  A  fearful  joy  was  visible 
in  her  aged  face,  from  which  every  wrinkle  seemed  to 
have  disappeared,  and  whose  pallor  was  animated  by  an 
inward  flush,  while  her  eyes  appeared  to  have  expanded 
to  double  their  size.  They  shone  in  the  twilight  like 
those  of  a  cat. 

"Bartolomeo  is  dead!"  whispered  Benvenuta  to  her- 
self, in  a  hardly  audible  voice. 

"  You  have  it !"  exclaimed  Mattea,  and  again  laughed. 
u  How  could  he  escape  my  vengeance?  All  the  outlaws 
were  upon  his  track  like  bloodhounds.  I  had  filled  them 
with  an  unquenchable  thirst  for  his  blood.  He  fled  from 
thicket  to  thicket  and  from  cavern  to  cavern ;  every  day 
since  that  day,  he  died  a  hundred  imaginary  deaths;  fear 
killed  him,  inch  by  inch,  long  before  the  bullets  struck 
him.  To-day  he  was  unable  longer  to  drag  himself  into 
his  cavern;  I  found  him  lying  upon  the  road,  and  he  saw 
me  as  I  stood  before  him  and  called  up  the  pack  of  hounds. 
He  saw  them  coming,  he  saw  their  musket-barrels — and 
so  he  died  and  was  buried  without  a  tear,  with  no  vocero 
save  my  laugh  of  scorn." 

She  was  silent,  and  looked  exultantly  around  on  the 
group.  She  now  first  noticed  Nadir.  "Ah,  Arabian,  are 
you  there  ?  The  king  is  dead,  his  star  has  gone  down 
as  I  prophesied  to  him, — they  have  murdered  him.  But 
be  comforted,  Arabian,  for  revenge  still  lives  and  will 


The  Return.  189 

claim  its  own,  were  it  even  upon  the  children  and  chil- 
dren's children  of  the  murderers.  Revenge,  0  Revenge, 
the  stronger  and  elder  sister  of  Justice,  does  not  die. 
Though  men  may  be  too  cowardly  to  claim  it,  Heaven 
undertakes  the  duty.  It  undermines  the  house  of  the 
man  who  has  incurred  its  wrath,  it  gends  a  poisonous 
vapor  around  it,  and  if,  overcome  by  forebodings  and 
fears,  he  seeks  to  fly,  it  leads  him  astray  until  he  finally 
returns  within  the  circle  of  destruction.  And  Heaven 
makes  no  distinction  between  kings  and  beggars/' 

As  Mattea  gave  utterance  to  these  and  other  exclama- 
tions, she  remained  standing  on  the  threshold  with  a  joyful 
countenance,  and  as  though  in  a  state  of  intoxication. 
She  now  turned  her  eyes  from  Nadir,  and  said,  in  a  milder 
and  gentler  tone  to  the  ladies,  "  Maria  Benvenuta,  blessed 
girl,  and  you,  Signora  Catherine,  whose  heart  is  full  of 
gentleness,  I  will  not  kiss  you  to-night,  for  my  heart 
feels  fierce,  and  I  have  looked  with  delight  in  the  eyes 
of  the  dying.  I  go  —  I  am  weary  —  I  am  ready — my 
destiny  is  accomplished — I  have  no  more  to  do.  I  will 
spread  me  a  couch  in  a  corner  of  your  dwelling,  I  will 
lie  down  to  no  more  rise  again.  Come  often  and  see  me, 
that  I  may  die  beneath  the  glance  of  kindly  eyes." 

She  went.  Catherine  and  Benvenuta  followed  her  to 
prepare  her  couch.  Nadir  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  into  the  gloomy  night.  Mournful  whispers  moaned 
through  the  trees  and  withered  leaves,  which  were  driven 
on  by  the  night  wind,  and  his  heart  whispered,  "This 
island  is  the  abode  of  death  !" 


11* 


•CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   END. 

MATTEA  had  spread  her  couch  in  an  old  arbor  in  the 
garden,  which  had  fallen  into  decay,  being  open  upon  all 
sides,  and  which  served  as  a  nestling  place  for  the  birds 
of  day,  as  well  as  for  those  of  night.  There  she  lay,  upon 
a  stack  of  straw  which  she  had  drawn  thither,  with  her 
aged  head  supported  by  a  bundle  of  clothing.  No  op- 
position could  induce  her  to  suffer  herself  to  be  rendered 
more  comfortable.  Her  retreat  would  remind  her  of  her 
life  in  the  thicket;  she  wished  to  hear  the  owls  screech, 
and  the  wind  and  trees  rattle,  and  to  see  the  sky  through 
the  impoverished  branches,  and  watch  the  drifting  clouds* 
There  she  lay,  talking  as  if  in  the  delirium  of  fever, 
prophesying,  warning,  and  threatening,  so  that  the  ladies 
did  not  leave  her  until  late,  when  she  had  fallen  into  a 
slumber,  and  they  could  leave  her  in  the  care  of  a  maid. 

When  they  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  they  found 
Nadir  seated  before  the  table,  motionless,  and  with  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands,  lost  in  thought,  as  though  en- 
tirely unconscious  of  what  was  passing  around  him. 
Only  when  they  placed  the  lamp  upon  the  table  did 
he  awake  from  this  deep  abstraction,  and  looking  at 
Benvenuta  with  an  almost  morose  expression,  said,  evi- 
dently unconscious  that  he  was  giving  his  thoughts 
words : 

(190) 


• 

The  End.  191 

"Benvenuta,  your  heart  is  dead,  for  it  is  bound  to  the 
dead  and  has  followed  him,  and  no  flickering  flame  is 
left  for  those  who  love  you." 

Catherine  and  Benvenuta  were  silent ;  they  felt  that 
he  was  speaking  in  a  kind  of  dream,  and  Catherine  re- 
pressed a  sigh. 

Nadir  awoke  but  slowly  from  his  dreamy  state,  while 
his  countenance,  which  was  fixed  upon  Benvenuta's 
features,  gradually  assumed  a  milder  expression,  until, 
finally,  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  and  drawing 
a  long  breath,  said  : 

"I  am  but  a  messenger!  I  came  to  communicate  in- 
telligence. Murat  and  Franceschetti  sent  me,  and  I 
must  continue  my  narration." 

And  after  a  short  pause,  in  which  he  endeavored  to 
arouse  himself  and  collect  his  thoughts,  he  again  pro- 
ceeded, without  more  urging: 

"  There  is  little  more  to  be  told.  We  lay  in  prison, 
while  Trentacapelli's  gang  were  raving  outside.  At  one 
time  our  hopes  were  excited,  for  the  inhabitants  of  Mon- 
teleone  made  their  appearance  in  arms,  to  attempt  to 
liberate  the  king;  but  the  castle  had  meanwhile  been 
occupied  by  a  large  number  of  soldiers,  and  when  the 
people  of  Monteleone  left,  the  king's  tutelar  genius  de- 
parted hopelessly  and  forever.  Instead  of  these  friends, 
there  came  men  who  styled  themselves  judges,  bringing 
with  them  the  sentence  of  death.  Among  them  sat  such 
persons  as  had  received  benefits  at  the  hands  of  Murat ; 
they  had  now  to  give  some  pledge  to  the  Bourbons  that 
they  had  effaced  the  remembrance  of  these  benefits  from 
their  hearts.  When  they  spoke  to  him  of  a  trial  and  of 
judges,  the  king  smiled,  and  refused  to  appear  before 
them.  While  they  were  sitting  and  pronouncing  sen- 


192  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

tence,  he  wrote  a  farewell  letter  to  his  wife  and  children. 
Here  it  is,  unsealed,  as  he  gave  it  to  ine ;  you  will  see 
that  the  queen  receives  it." 

So  saying,  he  drew  a  letter  from  his  bosom  and  placed 
it  before  Benvenuta.  She,  however,  merely  gazed  at  it, 
without  touching  it  or  moving.  Catherine  took  it  up, 
unfolded  it,  and  read  with  a  quivering  voice  : 

"  MY  DEAR  CAROLINE, — My  last  hour  has  come ;  in 
a  short  time  I  shall  have  ceased  to  live ;  in  a  short  time 
your  husband  will  be  no  more.  Do  not  forget  me;  my 
life  has  been  stained  by  no  injustice.  Farewell,  my 
Achilles;  farewell,  my  Letitia;  farewell,  my  Lucian; 
farewell,  my  J^ouisa ;  prove  to  the  world  that  you  are 
worthy  of  me.  I  leave  you  without  a  kingdom,  without 
property,  surrounded  by  my  numerous  enemies ;  be  ever 
united ;  rise  superior  to  misfortune  ;  remember  what  you 
are  and  what  you  were,  and  God  will  bless  you.  Do 
not  curse  my  memory.  Be  assured  that  the  greatest 
sorrow  of  my  last  moments  is  that  I  die  far  from  my 
children. 

"  I  leave  you  my  paternal  blessing,  my  embraces,  and 
my  tears.  Remain  true  to  the  memory  of  your  unhappy 
father." 

Catherine  laid  the  letter  upon  the  table,  weeping  as 
she  did  so,  and  Nadir  said : 

"  The  king  himself  wept  as  he  wrote  the  letter  and 
gave  it  to  me.  Directly  afterward,"  continued  Nadir, 
"an  officer  entered  the  cell  and  demanded  whether  the 
king  was  ready  for  death. 

u  <  I  am,'  replied  the  king. 


The  End.  193 

"A  tear  was  still  resting  upon  his  eyelashes,  but  erect 
and  haughty,  as  handsome  as  during  his  palmiest  days, 
he  followed  the  officer,  though  not  far,  for  he  had  but  to 
cross  the  threshold  of  his  cell.  In  the  narrow  passage 
without,  stood  twelve  men  with  their  weapons  raised  and 
cocked.  He  stepped  on  before  their  muzzles  with  a  firm 
step,  and  with  an  equally  firm  voice  said :  '  Soldiers,  do 
not  make  me  suffer  long ;  the  space  is  small — rest  your 
weapons  upon  my  breast !'  He  then  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
the  portrait  which  he  held  in  his  hands — the  rifles  were 
discharged — he  fell/' 

Benvenuta  dropped  from  her  seat  and  lay  upon  the 
ground,  as  though  the  twelve  Neapolitan  bullets  had 
pierced  her  own  heart. 

"My  child,  my  child!"  cried  Catherine;  "alas  for  the 
hour  that  brought  him  here !" 

Nadir  had  rushed  to  her,  and  placing  his  hands  be- 
neath the  head  of  the  swooning  girl,  and  bending  over 
her,  he  murmured,  in  a  tone  of  lament  and  reproach : 

"  Why  does  your  heart  cling  to  a  dead  friend,  when  a 
living  one  loves  you  with  his  whole  soul?" 

It  seemed  as  if  the  fainting  girl  had  not  lost  her  force 
of  will;  a  quiver  of  her  lips  and  eyelids  betrayed  a 
struggle  with  her  weakness,  and,  indeed,  she  soon  opened 
her  eyes,  quickly  collected  herself,  rose  and  remained 
standing,  as  though  she  had  not  shortly  before  been  ly- 
ing, like  a  dying  person,  upon  the  floor.  The  pallor  of 
her  countenance  alone  betrayed  what  had  just  before 
passed  before  and  within  her.  She  smilingly  bade  Nadir 
good  night,  and  leaning  on  her  mother's  shoulder,  left 
the  room. 

Nadir  spent  the  night  without  sleep,  in  the  quiet 
room  which  he  had  occupied  weeks  before,  and  where  he 


194  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

felt  himself  so  much  at  home,  and  yet  so  miserable.  He 
was  vexed  with  himself  that  he  should  have  returned  to 
Corsica,  to  run,  like  a  boy  after  a  fleeting  cloud,  in  pur- 
suit of  a  happiness,  which,  as  he  had  repeated  to  himself 
from  the  first,  was  not  to  be  his.  He  cursed  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Europe,  which  had  taught  him  thus  to  love ; 
and  yet,  when  the  thoughts  which  counseled  him  to 
flight,  led  him  to  his  native  land,  his  home  appeared  to 
him  a  lifeless  waste,  in  which  the  happiest  feelings  do 
not  thrive.  But  then,  again,  when  passion  raged  and 
stormed  within  him,  this  place  of  his  birth,  where  such 
love  was  unknown,  seemed  to  him  full  of  peace  and 
tranquillity,  and  he  felt  drawn,  by  a  powerful  yearning, 
to  the  spot  where,  as  a  child,  he  had  known  only  peace 
and  repose,  until  the  Europeans  had  come  to  overturn 
both  heart  and  home.  He  sought  to  rid  himself  of  Eu- 
ropean feelings,  and  of  the  European  manner  of  thinking, 
and  to  again  become  a  complete  Oriental.  What  was 
woman  to  him,  then, — what  was  love  ?  How  trifling 
seemed  to  him,  and  how  unworthy  of  a  man,  all  this 
struggle — all  the  sorrow  and  passion  to  which  the  chil- 
dren of  the  West  subjected  themselves  from  love !  But 
then  Benvenuta's  silent  form  stood  before  him  in  all  its 
strength  and  grandeur,  and  all  the  shame  of  exhibiting 
weakness,  like  the  Europeans,  before  such  a  woman,  fled, 
and  he  kept  on  dreaming  and  loving,  and  wrestling  with 
his  grief,  with  the  weakness  of  the  same  Europeans  whom 
he  condemned,  and  with  the  passion  of  the  sons  of  the 
South,  and  the  fiery  blood  of  Arabia.  He  intended  to 
pace  back  and  forth  in  his  room  and  remain  waking,  in 
order  to  form  some  resolution  as  to  his  immediate  future, 
and  the  night  passed  away,  leaving  him  plunged  still 
deeper  in  his  sorrow  and  love.  Head  and  heart  ap- 


The  End.  195 

peared  to  him  a  barren  waste,  when,  toward  morning,  he 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  curse,  as  the  cause  of  his  unhap- 
piness,  the  very  person  whom,  nevertheless,  he  had  fol- 
lowed to  his  last  moments  as  a  faithful  friend ;  it  even 
seemed  to  him  absurd  to  have  taken  the  place  of  servant 
to  the  man  who  had  stolen  from  him  that  heart  whose 
possession  would  have  constituted  his  highest  happiness, 
and  held  it  a  prisoner  even  beyond  the  grave.  To  how 
much  humiliation  fate  had  subjected  him  in  destining 
for  his  rival,  even  in  death,  all  that  was  glorious  and 
desirable,  while  it  condemned  him  to  the  lot  of  a  ser- 
vant, and  made  him  a  mere  satellite  of  his  preferred 
rival,  a  spectator  of  greatness  and  happiness  from  whose 
table  there  fell  no  crumb  for  him  !  He  thought  himself 
condemned — condemned  by  fate,  and  predestined  to  un- 
happiness  now  and  forever.  "  It  is  so  written,"  said  the 
son  of  the  East  to  himself;  he  dropped  his  arms  by  his 
side  in  despair,  and  hastened  out,  as  if  upon  wings,  into 
the  morning  twilight. 

Benvenuta,  also,  had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  but  she 
had  not  passed  it  in  lamentation,  nor  in  meditation  on  the 
past  or  the  future.  She  had  soon  shaken  off  her  faint- 
ness  and  its  consequences,  and  attentively  watching  and 
devoting  herself  entirely  to  her  duties  as  a  sick  nurse, 
she  sat  beside  the  couch  of  Mattea,  who  was  tossed  with 
fever,  and  whom  the  phantoms  of  delirium,  like  a  confused 
host  of  spirits,  now  excited  and  now  haunted  with  terror. 
One  might  have  supposed  that  the  account  of  the  death 
of  Murat  had  been  related  a  long  time  before,  for  there 
now  lay  hardly  the  lightest  shadow  upon  Benvenuta's 
countenance,  which  expressed  only  solicitude  for  the  sick 
woman,  and  which  was  constantly  turned  toward  her  to 
watch  over  her  and  anticipate  her  every  want.  In  whis- 


196  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

pering  words  of  gentleness,  in  easing  the  poor,  burning 
head,  in  administering  draughts  of  water,  and  even  in 
humming  soothing  airs,  which  served  to  lull  the  patient 
into  a  light  slumber,  the  night  passed  away.  By  morn- 
ing, the  fever  had  abated,  and  Benvenuta  then  permitted 
her  mother  to  attend  to  the  sick  woman,  allowing  herself 
an  opportunity  to  think  of  her  guest. 

But  Nadir  was  not  in  the  hall,  and  a  servant  stated 
that  he  was  not  in  the  house.  Benvenuta  was  seized  by 
excessive  anxiety,  and  she  trembled  in  every  limb.  The 
unhappy  man  did  not  know  that  in  Corsica,  one  who  has 
an  enemy  cannot  cross  his  threshold  by  day  or  night, 
unarmed,  without  the  fear  of  death. 

She  threw  on  her  mantle  and  hastened  out  through  the 
court-yard  into  the  village,  and  then,  seeing  him  nowhere, 
passed  on  behind  the  houses  and  cottages,  and  along  the 
gardens,  searching  in  every  direction,  and  even  looking 
here  and  there  behind  the  shrubbery  and  hedges,  to  see 
whether  Galvani  Serra's  rifle  might  not  be  on  the  watch. 
The  little  convent  bell  now  rung,  and  a  thought  entered 
her  mind.  She  felt  certain  of  finding  him  behind  the 
Capuchin  monastery,  on  the  same  spot  where,  the  morn- 
ing after  his  arrival  in  Vescovato,  he  had  first  betrayed 
his  love.  She  was  not  mistaken.  Turning  around  the 
garden  of  the  convent,  she  saw  Nadir  near  the  seat,  in 
exactly  the  same  position  as  at  that  time,  when  exhausted 
by  running,  he  had  disengaged  her  from  his  arms.  She 
hastily  approached  him  ;  her  steps  through  the  rustling 
foliage  aroused  him,  and  he  opened  his  eyes,  smiled  and 
arose. 

"  Come  back  into  the  house,  Nadir,"  said  Benvenuta 
urgently. 

"  That  I  will,  my  friend,"  he  gently  replied.  "  I  merely 


The  End.  197 

wished  to  take  leave  of  this  beloved  spot  before  I  quit  it 
forever !" 

"You  are  going  away,  then?" 

"  Yes,  Benvenuta,  I  am  going  away.  I  am  going 
home.  When  nothing  else  is  left  us,  the  memory  of 
home  abides  forever ;  we  always  imagine  that  we  shall 
there  find  the  tranquillity  which  we  enjoyed  in  childhood. 
This  spot  is  holy  ground,  and  I  have  had  a  vision  here 
like  the  prophets  and  fathers,  in  the  holy  places.  I  have 
seen  my  home  with  a  clearness  and  distinctness  unknown 
for  many  years,  the  broad,  majestic,  mysterious,  sacred 
stream,  which,  as  our  traditions  say,  flows  from  Paradise, 
the  cots  upon  its  banks  and  the  palm-trees  near  them. 
My  eye  sweeps  in  the  far  distance,  over  white  and  green 
plains,  to  ancient  ruins  of  mysterious  origin,  and  to  the 
borders  of  lands  of  fable.  Vaster,  higher,  and  wider 
than  here,  is  the  arch  of  the  bright  heavens;  the  sun 
shines  with  a  clearer  glow,  but  the  stars  illuminate  the 
azure  night  and  are  nearer  to  men  than  here.  Poor, 
oppressed,  without  knowledge  of  the  past,  and  without 
looking  into  the  future,  my  brothers  and  sisters  live  in 
that  strange  world." 

Nadir's  head  drooped  in  sadness,  and  his  arms  fell  by 
his  side.  Benvenuta  grasped  his  left  hand,  and  looked, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  into  his  sad  and  yet  animated 
countenance. 

He  placed  his  right  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  pur- 
sued, witfi  a  quivering  voice  : 

"I  will  go  to  them,  to  the  poor  and  oppressed.  To 
them  I  will  bring,  and  with  them  share  the  treasure  of 
love  in  my  heart — that  treasure  which  you,  Benvenuta, 
taught  me  to  find,  and  if  I  accomplish  any  good,  it  will 
be  your  work,  Benvenuta.  I  will  be  their  teacher.  I 


198  The  Last  Days  of  a  King. 

will  tell  them  that  the  noblest  secret  of  life  they  do  not 
know.  I  will  speak  to  them  of  woman — of  love " 

At  that  instant  a  shot  was  fired  from  behind  the  hedge 
where  Carabelli  had  listened  weeks  before,  and,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  Nadir  fell  into  Benvermta's  arms,  pierced 
through  the  heart. 

u  Galvani !"  shrieked  Benvenuta,  and  fell  with  the 
dying  man. 

"You  have  guessed  it !"  replied  a  voice  from  the  con- 
vent garden. 


As  there  is  no  burial-place  for  Mohammedans  in 
Corsica,  Nadir  was  laid  to  rest  in  Colonna  Ceccaldi's 
garden,  in  a  grove  of  pomegranates.  There  Benvenuta 
would  often  sit  with  her  father,  who  had  returned  from 
captivity ;  there  she  first  learned  of  the  fidelity  and 
devotion  exhibited  by  Nadir,  amid  the  greatest  dangers, 
during  the  expedition  to  Naples,  and  of  the  heroism  of 
this  child  of  a  foreign  land,  of  whom  history  makes  no 
mention.  Much  more  sensitive  since  Nadir's  death  than 
before,  she  would  allow  her  tears  to  flow  without  restraint, 
and  ere  the  grass  had  grown  high  above  his  grave,  she 
could  not  tell  whose  memory  was  the  dearer — that  of  the 
unhappy  king,  or  that  of  the  homeless  wanderer. 


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BOOK  FIRST. — Chapter  I.  Pythias;  or,  Mephistopheles.  II.  "La 
Comete  et  sa  Queue."  III.  A  Prime  Minister  at  Home.  IV.  The 
Queen  of  Lilies.  V.  Poesie  du  Beau  Sexe.  VI.  "  The  Many  Years 
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IX.  The  Watchers  for  the  Fall  of  Ilion. 

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perdu  fors  1'Honneur."  III.  The  Love  of  Woman.  IV.  The  Last 
Night  among  the  Purples.  V.  The  Death  of  the  Titan.  VI.  "And 
the  Spoilers  came  down."  VII.  The  Few  who  were  Faithful.  VIII. 
The  Crowd  in  the  Cour  ties  Princes. 

BOOK  FOURTH. — Chap.  I.  "Facilis  Descensus  Averni."  II.  "Where 
all  Lite  Dies  Death  Lives."  III.  In  the  Net  of  the  Retiarius.  IV. 
"Sin  shall  not  have  Dominion  over  You." 

BOOK  FIFTH. — Chap.  1.  In  Exile.     II.  In  Triumph. 

BOOK  SIXTH. — Chap.  I.  "Primavera!  Gioventu  dell'  Anno  !"  II. 
Castalia.  III.  "  Gioventu!  Primavera  della  Vita !"  IV.  "  Seigneur! 
ayez  Pitie !" 

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speak  good  of  Thee."  II.  The  Throne  of  the  Exile.  III.  "  He  who 
Endures  Conquers."  IV.  "  Qui  a  Offense  ne  Pardonne  Jamais."  V. 
"Ne  chercher  qu'un  Regard,  qu'une  Fleur,  qu'un  Soleil."  VI.  "Nihil 
Humani  a  me  alienurn  puto."  VII.  "Pale,  comme  un  beau  Soir 
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Past."  IV.  "To  Thine  Own  Self  be  True."  V.  The  Codes  of  Arthur. 
VI.  "Et  tu,  Brute."  VII.  Liberta.  VIII.  Lex  Talionis.  IX.  "King 
over  Himself." 

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IV. — A  Complete  Etymological  Vocabulary  of  Geographical 
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V. — An  elaborate  Introduction,  explanatory  of  the  Principles 
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German,  Greek,  Hungarian,  Italian,  Norwegian,  Polish, 
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"The  Grand  Addition  to  the  Geography  of  Inner  Africa 
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SIR  RODERICK  I.  MURCHISON,  BART. 

JUST  READY. 
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THE    ALBERT     NYANZA, 

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EXPLORATIONS  OF  THE  NILE  SOURCES. 


SAMUEL   WHITE    BAKER,    M.A.F.R.G.8., 
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In  the  history  of  the  Nile  there  was  a  void :  its  sources  were  a 
mystery.  The  Ancients  devoted  much  attention  to  this  problem,  but 
in  vain.  The  Emperor  Nero  sent  an  expedition  under  the  command 
of  two  centurions,  as  described  by  Seneca.  Even  Roman  energy 
failed  to  break  the  spell  that  guarded  these  secret  fountains.  The 
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BRUCE  won  the  source  of  the  Blue  Nile;  SPEKE  and  GRANT  won 
the  Victoria  source  of  the  great  White  Nile ;  and  I  have  been  per- 
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which  the  river  issues  as  the  entire  White  Nile. 

The  journey  is  long,  the  countries  savage;  there  are  no  ancient 
histories  to  charm  the  present  with  memories  of  the  past ;  all  is  wild 
and  brutal,  hard  and  unfeeling,  devoid  of  that  holy  instinct  instilled 
by  nature  into  the  heart  of  man — the  belief  in  a  Supreme  Being.  In 
that  remote  wilderness  in  Central  Equatorial  Africa  are  the  Sources 
of  the  Nile.— Preface. 


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De  La  Plache,  Esq.,  Sketches  and  Travels  in  London,  Novels  by 
Eminent  Hands,  Character  Sketches. 

VOL.  III. — The  Memoirs  of  Barry  Lynden,  Esq.,  A  Legend  of  the 
Rhine,  Rebecca  and  Rowena,  A  Little  Dinner  at  Timmins's,  The 
Bedford-Row  Conspiracy. 

VOL.  IV.— The  Fitz  Boodle  Papers,  Men's  Wives,  A  Shabby  Gen- 
teel Story,  The  History  of  Samuel  Titmarsh  and  the  Great  Hoggarty 
Diamond. 

ECCE  HOMO: 

A  Survey  of  the  Life  and  Work  of  Jesus  Christ, 

English  edition.     8vo.     $2.50. 

CONTENTS. 

FIRST  PART.— Chap.  I.  The  Baptist.  II.  The  Temptation.  III. 
The  Kingdom  of  God.  IV.  Christ's  Royalty.  V.  Christ's  Creden- 
tials. VI.  Christ's  Winnowing  Fan.  VII.  Conditions  of  Member- 
ship in  Christ's  Kingdom.  VIII.  Baptism.  IX.  Reflections  on  the 
Nature  of  Christ's  Society. 

SECOND  PART.  CHRIST'S  LEGISLATION. — Chap.  X.  Christ's  Legis- 
lation compared  with  Philosophic  System-'.  XI.  The  Christian  Re- 
public. XII.  Universality  of  the  Christian  Republic.  XIII.  The 
Christian  a  Law  to  Himself.  XIV.  The  Enthusiasm  of  Humanity. 
XV.  The  Lord's  Supper.  XVI.  Positive  Morality.  XVII.  The  Law 
of  Philanthropy.  XVIII.  The  Law  of  Edification.  XIX.  The  Law 
of  Mercy.  XX.  The  Law  of  Mercy  (continued).  XXI.  The  Law  of 
Resentment.  XXII.  Tho  Law  of  Forgiveness.  XXIII.  The  Law 
of  ^'^giveness  (continued).  XXIV.  Conclusion. 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


